


Romance Campaign

by Butmunchr



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Bisexual Male Character, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Closeted Character, Eventual Romance, Fails Miserably, Felon Dick, Flirting, Gambling Withdrawal, Gay Male Character, Gay Panic, God Tier Full On Romance, Hairy Boobs, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Injuries, Mouthful of Boobs, Mutual Pining, Northern Snort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sweet Beverage (Not Cum), Team as Family, Teasing, lil peanut tries to be smooth, sexy jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butmunchr/pseuds/Butmunchr
Summary: In a zombie apocalypse four survivors are trying to fight their way to safety. A gay southern baby gets distracted by some conman boobs and shit hits the fan.Or alternatively: me giving you the same old campaigns, but with the romance we all desired from the beginning.
Relationships: Ellis/Nick (Left 4 Dead)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 90
Collections: Top Favourites (L4D)





	1. Hotel

“’Ey!”

“Hey!”

“Come back!”

“Hey!”

“Come back! _Come back!_ Argh, he ain’t comin’ back.”

“Ok, we all had a turn yelling at the helicopter. Good. Moving on. I think the building’s on _fire_.”

“Dammit – faav minutes too late.”

“Oh, shit- they did _not_ just leave us on this roof!”

“Ok, nobody panic, I live around here and that chopper looks like he’s headed to the mall. It ain’t far. I can take you there.”

“Aah know that mall – there’s an evac center set up there.”

The suit clad male sighed, clearly annoyed, and looked around the roof with narrowed eyes. Ellis’ attention immediately stuck to him: the man, probably around his thirties, wore a pristinely white suit that he brushed from time to time, and had a gun holster attached to his thigh. Deep, unwavering eyes scanned the group smartly, judging them attentively. A booming voice cut off his thoughts abruptly, bringing him back to reality.

“Okay. Helicopters don't come back when you yell at 'em. Valuable lesson, you three tuck that away for later. Now grab a weapon and follow me. This goddamn building's on _fire.”_

The biggest member of the group – a dark skinned, tall man with a tucked in polo shirt – obviously didn’t like the other’s tone. Squaring his shoulders dangerously, he didn’t say anything, instead walked to the offered supply table and grabbed a crowbar.

Turning around with his face decorated by a smile, Ellis offered a nod at the slightly hesitant woman, letting her choose her way of defense first. She smiled back at him gratefully and grabbed the two pistols. The only thing left was a fire axe; its head gleamed in the sunlight. Picking it up excitedly, he exclaimed:

“Aah’ve always wanted tah be an axe murderer!”

The declaration made everyone turn their heads at him sharply, wary of his words. With the pressure of everyone’s stare on him, the mechanic mumbled an excuse and pulled the brim of his hat not too gently over his hot face. Tentatively, the two men at the front let the statement slide and hurried down the stairs, both of them fighting to take the lead first. The woman, however, stayed back and offered him a reassuring smile.

“Hey, little dude, we can share the pistols if you want.”

Peeking from underneath the brim, Ellis offered an unsure smile, shaking his head dismissively.

“Naw, Aah’ll keep the axe, but thank yew kindly ma’am.”

“Of course, I see you like it a lot.”

She winked at him good-heartedly, setting his face ablaze once again.

The two made their way down to where the rest of their group waited. Cat-like eyes regarded Ellis from top to bottom, as if he was a displayed gallery piece. The eyes pierced every nook and cranny on his body, until he felt naked. He hesitated down the steps, then ultimately decided to shuffle past and open the door which held the strain on each person’s shoulders. What the group got greeted with was… short of extraordinary.

"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! What are these things?"

"Oh, this is unexpected."

"Dude, those zombies are _real._ Aah knew them books were nonfiction." 

A bullet cracked through the air, piercing a zombie in the shoulder, stumbling it momentarily. The creature turned to the group calmly before its eyes locked with the female survivor and sprinted at her in feral rage.

“Sweet Jesus!”

A few steps in, it got expertly headshot, falling to the ground lifeless. All eyes turned in awe at the still smoking Magnum, steadily held in the northerner’s hand. Ellis’ heart thumped wildly in his throat like he’d run a marathon moments prior. His cheeks flushed pink and his stomach filled with heavy iron. Locking eyes with the man, adrenaline got injected right into his bloodstream – enough to make him tingle and start moving. The mechanic pushed past his teammates and slashed in a swift, haste manner at the incoming zombies, which attracted to them like flies to honey. Following his lead, the rest raised their weapons and helped him clear the area in rapid succession.

Wandering into a big meeting area, the only woman in the group was greeted by a lurking zombie. It had its back to her so she sneaked behind it to gain the upper hand. Just as she was about to shoot, it turned around abruptly with a glowing stare. Startled, she instinctively pushed it away before shooting at its torso blindly. It twitched on the floor, blood seeping out of its body. She almost felt bad for a moment, but there was nothing she could do to even try to help it. Once sure it lay completely unmoving, she looked around the brightly lit room. A hastily scribbled red color caught her eye – a map spread out on the nearby table. Overturned cups and crumpled documents were scattered on top of it, but still avoided a pristine spot on its right side. Taking a closer look, it showed all the evacuation routes on the eastern side of the country. All of the big cities were marked in ugly x’s except New Orleans, nestled at the bottom.

"Look at this map... Guys, we need to get to New Orleans. Fast."

The youngest member of the group was at her side in a record time, observing over her shoulder.

“What- Holy shiet…”

Attracted, the rest of her team crowded around her to take a look too.

"Man, look at this map. We're all that's left." The tallest member muttered, as if in a prayer.

"So that's why I'm feeling so goddamn lucky."

The mechanic bit his lip, fighting against the grin trying to get a hold of his face. Apparently not fast enough, he caught a pair of gray eyes getting a glimpse of his slip up and smirking confidently in return.

"You're tirin' me real fast, son."

“Whatever.”

Letting out a heavy breath, their oldest member turned his eyes to the woman hopefully.

“Girl, you make any sense of this?”

"Yeah, yeah I can make sense of this. We are screwed."

"If that map's right, New Orleans might be the last place in America that can get us out alive. Let’s move.”

For a second time since they’d met, the white suited man took the lead, turning around the corner out of sight. No one made a move to follow so Ellis took it upon himself to watch the older man’s back. In his haste, the heels of his boots scuffled onto the carpet roughly, stumbling him. He regained his balance quickly and caught up to the other man easily.

Walking at his side, the mechanic became strangely aware of the state of his dirty shirt and grease covered fingers; he brushed them off his tied coveralls and retied their sleeves. His voice had hidden itself and his head was full of static. Even with the building falling apart around them, his ears could only hear pounding blood. The short male inhaled and exhaled as silently as possible and busied himself with counting his steps, trying to feign disinterest. The leather boots made his feet look uneven, so he stepped in an unnatural way to fix them. With the rapid decrease of focus, his mouth enthusiastically opened and spilled whatever was floating around his brain.

"Mah buddy Keith tried campin’ out on top of a building once. He was shootin’ crows, but the police were too busy teargassin' him tah ask what he was doin' up there. He screamed fer an entire _year_ every single taahm he opened his aahs! Oh, man! At first, it was funny; then it jus’ got sad, but then it got funny again! Oh, man!"

Still walking undisturbedly, the older male scrunched his nose confusedly and threw him a degrading look.

“And your point is…?”

Surprise tugged Ellis’ face up – he hadn’t even realized he’d said something. Dumbfounded and at a loss for words he could only stare with big eyes, while stormy clouds stabbed him with lightning bolts, full of disdain.

“Right.” The northerner scoffed, continuing down the hallway to the elevator doors.

Ellis faltered back slightly, his stomach churning uncomfortably. His black nails scraped along the wooden handle of his axe, smoothing any bumps in the wood. The heat of his face had now spread all the way to his ears and neck, filling his head with hot lead.

Hesitantly arriving, he tried to make himself as small as possible, while waiting for the rest of his group to reunite. A few moments passed. Why hasn’t his companion made his way inside already? It was only when the endless shaft of the now missing elevator stared back at him from the corner of his eyes that it hit him – there was nothing but a cord hanging there, leaving the group with no means of getting to the ground floor sufficiently. The mechanic didn’t want the disappointment to crawl its way into him, but the other’s sour expression polluted him. Finally, the rest of the group walked up to them confusedly, until they saw the empty vertical corridor.

"Oh, crumbs! Elevator's out."

"Crumbs? Really, Coach? That's how you swear?"

Ignoring the man, the youngest survivor chimed “Down the hall.” and led the group to a slightly closed off path. Just as he was about to climb over the stacked furniture, an unexpected explosion threw fire into his face, pushing him. Strong, broad hands got a hold of his shoulders, pulling his body to a safe distance. Extending his neck fully, Ellis got greeted by a pair of chocolate eyes regarding him steadily. The elder pat his back and let him go, once deeming him unharmed. The mechanic shot the darker male a thankful smile and straightened his hat.

"Alright, I'm not walking through _that_. Let's find another way."

"We can walk along the ledge!"

It was turn for the oldest member to lead, but he stopped himself short before the big windows leading outside. Raising his crowbar, he motioned for the rest of his group to stand back, before making contact with the wildly spraying glass.

"Man, it don't feel right breakin' property like this."

"I _love_ doing that. Will never get tired of it."

A piece of the group’s doubts about their dangerous companion slowly got confirmed, but they didn’t act to shun him away; only stored his words in the back of their minds, fueling their distrust.

Walking along the ledge proved dangerous, but simple in on itself. Clearing the rooms didn’t prove as a challenge either. Different painkiller bottles from bad hangovers sat on nightstands, which each survivor pocketed in case something happened along their way through the city.

Walking out into the corridor, neither of them were prepared for a vicious howl that split the air like a piece of paper. A creature crashed into the side of the open stairwell door, sending Ellis violently stumbling backwards towards a gaping window. A wall of hairy chest and quick thinking saved his life just in time. 

Disoriented at first, he came to with hair tickling his nose. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught the glint of gold and his body froze. The mechanic slowly shrunk as blue orbs followed the white material of the suit jacket all the way up to a pair of cold eyes. The top of his head barely reached above the man’s collarbone and Ellis drowned in the other’s height. With his mind as hollow as bamboo, he could only stare and let out strangled noises as bushy brows furrowed and unfurrowed at him in confusion.

“You ok, kid?”

Reluctantly, Ellis unstuck himself from the toned body, as if it was covered in sugar water. Offering a strained nod, he hurried to catch up with the rest of their team on wobbly legs. They stood around the dead creature, worry gnawing at their features. Large, with hairless, gray colored skin, his most noticeable feature – a lumpy, calloused arm covered in various cuts – took most of his body mass. Blood covered overalls draped over his body, dirtied mainly by the blood oozing out of his mouth. He’d repeatedly collided into objects to the point where almost no facial features resided on his face.

"Reports says that there's something that is worse than zombies."

The football coach grunted in agreement.

“This ain’t good – they mutatin’ an’ shit. Girl, you know something more ‘bout these things? Like weaknesses and such?”

“I… I’ve heard they’re called chargers on the news, but that’s about it.”

Ellis spotted their last member making his way over to them and his body went taught. If he concentrated enough, he could taste the man’s cool breath on the back of his sweaty neck, as he peered over his head to take a look as well. The urge to get close took a small hold of him, but the mechanic fought against it, instead moving to stand behind their female teammate.

"So that's a Charger, huh? I think he worked out that arm plenty, he should move on to back and legs."

Even the eldest let a smirk slip this time, but still shook his head disapprovingly.

“I jus’ hope we won’t see more of these.”

But they did. Not only that, but the lower floor was riddled with the whole populace of the hotel: businessmen in their expensive suits still clutching tightly onto secretive briefcases, housekeepers desperately banging on the inside of locked bathroom doors and chargers ready to throw them out of the nearest window without a moment’s hesitation. On top of that the survivors had to look out for all the falling debris and trapped fire, ready to explode in their faces at any moment.

"This elevator's still working!"

"Thank Jesus, this one's still on. I ain't walkin' down thirty flights of stairs."

Inside, the survivors pushed the designated buttons and took a deep breath of relief.

"Holy shiet. This some sorta nightmare? Gaddamn zombie apocalypse an’ shit. Shit, shit, shit. The hell we gonna do?"

"Settle down, son. We're gonna be okay. What's your name?"

"Folks call me Ellis. Aah run an auto shop ‘round here. Instead of evacuatin', Aah armored up a truck tah drive myself outta here. Built that thing tah be zombie-proof. Turns out it was only 99% zombie-proof. The last 1% tore that truck to shiet.”

“Pleased to meet you. You can call me Coach.”

"Hey. Name's Rochelle, you?"

Eyes locked with the most mysterious member of their group. He hadn’t spoken much to them after the first charger encounter and they all eagerly awaited to hear more from him.

"I normally go solo, but under these circumstances, I'm thinking we stick together. Call me Nick.”

Ellis liked that name. It suited him. Nick. Nick, Nick, Nick- He could say that all day long. Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick- He just loved saying it, really-

A melodic ding announced their arrival.

"Alright, we're all friends now. Get ready."

The doors revealed a pure picture of hell: fallen debris and burning luggage toppled at every exit, fire licking every nook of the interior and poisonous smoke trying to push into their bodies. The high pitched ding of the elevator had alerted every infected on the ground floor; they rushed at them with bloodthirsty expressions and melting skin. Burning or not they all wanted their way with the survivors, pushing and pulling at each other’s flesh, revealing muscle and bone underneath. The group fought their way to a nearby security room where they locked the door and looked around for a way to defend themselves. Coach spotted an armory locker, his expression turning sour.

"Look at this, they knew damn well this was gonna get bad."

Nick excitedly ran up to the locker and pried it open.

"Shotgun, you complete me."

By the time the team was armed, the infected could already put their gnarly arms through a gap in the door. Crouching into position, the group fired simultaneously, clearing the doorway in less than a few seconds. Stepping through the blood and guts they didn’t look back; running the rest of the way to safety. Each tried breathing as little as possible as the smell of overcooked, coppery pork materialized into lumps inside their lungs.

The armored door at the end of the long hall welcomed them inside its save haven. Eagerly, they stacked every piece of furniture they saw, fear of what could come crawling on their backs like poisonous ants.


	2. The Streets

The mechanic drank thirsty gulps of air, leaning against the counter. With the terrain calm, he took his time analyzing the room and its contents.

The lounge was a small, carpeted area where people would’ve come mainly for snacking and relaxing. A plant sat nestled into the corner, its ends covered in crisp goldenrod; the dust it was covered in, evidence that it hasn’t been disturbed for some time now. Two vending machines hugged the wall, their destroyed glass sprinkled shattered onto the floor. Coach stared somewhat disappointed at the lack of contents, making Ellis curl his lips in amusement. The people before them had obviously hogged all of the food and drinks, diminishing the group’s chances of a late morning snack. The insides of a ruined suitcase laid scattered across a big chunk of the carpet: passports, toothbrushes, colorful shirts, unused shoes – all past signs of a wasted life. Nick scrunched his nose at the sleeping bags behind the counter and went to grab one of the med kits placed onto a nearby table.

CEDA had sent news announcements and stuck posters everywhere, warning people to prepare “safe houses” – defendable rooms and basements fortified by heavy steel doors and barricaded windows. The rooms had to contain first aid kits, flashlights, prescription medicine and non-perishable foods. Later the military also permitted the use of guns when the situation had gotten desperate. As a result, two SMG’s gleamed next to the first aid kits, along with a healthy amount of ammunition.

After such an action-packed run, the southerner was honestly getting kind of bored. He busied himself with rubbing a coffee stain stuck onto the counter’s surface. Time trickled like crystallized honey, weighting down on his muscles. Each member of his temporary family had thoughts projected onto their foreheads like a book cover. Yet they didn’t speak and after a while, he gave up.

"Aah ever tell ya’ll the taahm me an’ Keith went tah Hollywood? It was the most awesomest place in the world. We saw- "

"Ellis, if you don't shut up, I am going to find this Keith, zombie or not, and wring his neck."

"Too bad fer yew, Nick. He was one of the first tah git on the whirlybirds."

Heavy silence sealed the room. Ellis didn’t like the northerner’s tone and as much as he wanted to be his friend, he also didn’t want to have bugs crawling in his stomach every time he tried talking to him.

Rochelle fidgeted with a paper-clip to the side and chewed over her thoughts. She understood where Nick was coming from – no time should be spent for funny stories and happy banter – but she also didn’t approve of the way he went about it. She jumped off the counter and strapped an SMG to her hip, although a little inadequately.

“I can’t believe I’m stranded in Savannah.”

Ellis’ head hesitantly lifted her way and enthusiasm built into his posture.

“Man, Savannah is awesome! Come, Aah’ll show yew all the sights tah the mall!”

The producer smiled, amused by how easy it had been to cheer her small companion, and followed him outside.

“Ok, I guess.”

The streets were oddly calm compared to the situation the group had experienced inside. CEDA trailers, tents and barricades surrounded the area, freezing traffic. Zombies walked aimlessly to their right, ignorant of their presence. The bushes lining the hotel’s entrance were overgrown and dried out, clearly a sign of the building’s abandonment. Overturned cubicles wreaked havoc – remains of the panic the evacuees had left behind.

The further they went outside the more the group realized the extent in which the infection had spread – infected CEDA agents walked around with equipment still attached to their thighs, their patients mourning the loss of their humanity in research tents. Some zombies leaned against concrete walls, retching their guts, while others wandered aimlessly, moaning in pain. Birds hid in the nearby trees, sending calls of distress to one another.

Infected heads turned their way with every step the survivors took – as if a magnetic field had set upon them. In a matter of seconds, zombies swarmed the group, bloodthirsty and furious. Back to back, each member fired their weapons at the upcoming mass, protecting themselves from danger. The zombies tried surrounding them. Each pushed them aside. They moved in tandem. Even so, occasionally Ellis would get stumbled by the recoil of his shotgun and Rochelle would panic, emptying her SMG at thin air, resulting in them getting hurt by the impossibly sharp claws. The still unripe teamwork worked however, and after a few minutes the area cleared enough for them to continue.

The team stayed as close as possible, each covering a different flank. They didn’t want to get taken out of guard again. Having more sense of how each of them handled their side, they positioned accordingly: Coach led at the front, Rochelle and Ellis walked next to each other in the middle and Nick glared around in the back.

The adrenaline from before had melted fast and left him with a pounding headache. He wanted to just lay somewhere and sleep for the rest of the day, undisturbed. His body protested the bright sunlight stabbing at his red eyes. Sleep deprivation made his eyeballs sting and he couldn’t hold anyone’s stare for longer than a few seconds. It took all his inner strength to not topple over when using the shotgun – it dug painfully into his shoulder sending painful sparks throughout his entire upper body. His legs barely lifted from the ground, dragging lazily on the bumps of the pavement. 

A digital traffic sign read “CEDA Evac Liberty Mall”, confirming the Savannah natives’ words. The West Atlanta bridge exit had been cut off, preventing the arrival of vehicles. Police cars and path blockades strayed the traffic through other streets, letting the now ex CEDA agents do their work as undisturbed as possible, till the helicopters had arrived. All that was but a memory now, as no one had made it out unharmed.

With the survivors’ shortcut out of reach, they gathered around the steel fencing, their expressions resembling that of kicked puppies.

“Yew sure we kint jus’ move the barricades?”

“No way. Even if we could, Coach over there wouldn’t be able to squeeze through.”

“Gotta agree with Nick here.” The old coach muttered sorrowfully, patting his swelled belly.

Leaving them with no other choice, the survivors made their way to the green entrance of the electricity maintenance area. The mechanic twisted and pulled on the knob to no avail. Locked.

“Hogwash!”

The conman pushed the young mechanic aside roughly and crouched down to observe the keyhole. He turned around, mischief poking at his eyes.

“Anyone here have a paper clip or bobby pin?”

The group, taken aback, stared full of disbelief. Nick threw them a “Well?” look, unbothered. The producer, slightly conflicted, toyed with the golden hoops framing the sides of her face. With no one making a move, she sighed, defeated, and unpinned a stray braid, making it flop down unceremoniously. She handed it to the open palm, already annoyed by the wild appendage.

“…but you better give it back.”

“Can’t promise anything, babe.”

Nick twisted at the small bobby pin, snapping it in half with a gentle clink. Rochelle visibly cringed at the sound, but curiosity took over her dissatisfaction.

Inserting the first half of the pin, the man bent it at 90 degrees, creating a sharp curl. He did the same with the other half, this time however pressing just gently. He inserted both of the pins inside and everyone’s breath stilled: Nick turned and twisted, the surprisingly audible clicks that came once in a while hitting each person’s eardrums like an orchestra drum. Not even a few seconds later, the handy lock picker stood up and pushed the door, letting his guests inside.

The building was just a small, barren corridor leading the team out on the main roads. People had to leave their cars behind as the steel walls prevented their passage. Coach, tempted by a bag of gummy bears, peeked through the dirty side window of a red truck. The possible alarm turned him off though, and he followed his group.

Quick and tottery steps alarmed him a little too late as next thing he knew, claws tried ripping his eyes out. A weight settled on his shoulders, immobilizing him. The ferocity with which the nails dug into his skin made his knees go weak. He let himself be pulled around like a blind horse, helpless.

"Ellis—Ellis, is that you?! W-What the hell?'"

The big chunk pulled off his body abruptly, letting his shoulders pulse with relief. Turning around met the man with Ellis bashing the small creature with the dull side of his axe, leaving nothing but a pool of mangled guts behind. The mechanic rose, breathing heavily. His eyes rooted to the mess before him, anticipating its next move. With no signs of the viscera coming back to life, Ellis turned to Coach, visibly shaken, breaking the elder’s heart.

“Coach, Aah’m so sawry, Aa-h should’ve paid more attenshun- “

“Don’t worry, youngin’, Coach ain’t mad. You saved me.”

“But- “

“Coach!”

The producer ran at him full speed, her loose braid flailing around comically. Nick trailed behind her almost lazily, but brows cut deep creases between his eyes.

“We are so sorry we took so long, but we couldn’t shoot it off or- “

“Everyone, please, I’m fine. What was that thing anyways?”

“Well, Coach, by the way he was ridin’ yew yew’d think he was a jockey or sometin’...”

The southerner’s unsure laugh met a wall of glinting stares.

“That’s perfect actually.” The northerner was first to compliment.

“You’re good at this, dude.”

“Well thought, youngin’.”

The compliments lit fire across Ellis’ cheeks. He pulled the brim of his hat down with a small nod and the group set off once again, not leaving each other out of sight.

They climbed over the construction debris dumpster and made their way inside yet another electricity maintenance area. Luckily for Rochelle’s hairdo, it proved unlocked. Upstairs the survivors came across a table, a Combat shotgun and M-16 Assault Rifle resting in a chilling calm.

“Only two…” The woman muttered, disappointment tainting her voice.

"Oh! Aah know a gun store we kin stop by along the way – git ourselves sum real bangers."

"A gun store sounds like a fine place to stop."

“It’s settled then. Now, how’re we gonna divide these?” The eldest asked, secretly ogling the shotgun from the corner of his eyes.

“Aah say Ro should take the rifle.”

The woman shot him a grateful look and took the offered weapon. Nick weighed the rest of their options, settling decisively.

“As long as Coach gives me his SMG he can take the shotgun.”

“Deal.”

The grown men exchanged weapons and Coach grabbed the one on the table, pleased.

“Auto shotty is mine.”

“Honey, take mine too. It wouldn’t be fair.”

‘’Aah guess it'll do. Yeah, whatever, it's a machine gun."

Rochelle patted his back apologetically, as the younger man’s disappointment seeped through his skin. Taking the lead, the mechanic stepped out just as a baloney figure threw itself over the fence, popping in his face.

"Christ in a handbasket! Aah kint see shiet!”

The ground shook as a mass of shrieking zombies stomped, brainlessly allured by the disgusting smell. They climbed the trailer, threw themselves over fences; like sharks smelling a drop of blood in the vast ocean. Ellis fumbled, the goo slipping under his lids, burning like corrosive. His hands were getting increasingly wetter. His lungs wouldn’t take air – he was choking. The floor sunk, taking his legs with it. He rubbed harder and faster. Firm sleeves collided with his face swiping roughly. Ellis was turned around, still blinking rapidly. A rifle got shoved into his hands.

“Shoot!”

Mindlessly, the smaller male pressed the trigger, the unexpected recoil pushing him against the table. Positioning his hands onto his back, Nick supported him, letting him fire with renewed confidence.

Ellis’ face gradually heated as the hands readjusted themselves, their warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. Each finger dug into his muscles, the rings, rolling onto soft waves. The touches blinded him; his body soaked the feeling. His senses of touch turned hyperactive and he couldn’t help the pleasure tingling in his stomach. His body was greedy, drunk by the gentle rubs barraging his senses. Then the clip ran empty and he was left cold.

Slowly, Ellis’ focus returned and his skin crawled with discomfort. He’d mauled the mass with just one clip, leaving a bloody catastrophe behind. His body boomed with adrenaline, tainted by how impressed he was. Still, fear of how easy he’d handled it made his stomach sunk.

Ellis returned the M-16 to Rochelle and the group made their way down the open railing and up the street. Their path closed off once again, forcing them to climb up the nearby stairs and wander through the abandoned apartment complex. The mechanic remembered walking there with friends, yet he never remembered it being this desolate.

The bridge they walked on, towering over the road bellow, was oddly empty too, and so was the front of the small gun shop. The building carried boards reading “CLOSED” – ironic, considering other boards cockily claimed “OPEN 364 DAYS A YEAR” in bold letters. The obvious reason of the store’s abandonment made Rochelle bite her lips unsurely.

Inside, the shop – if it could even be called that, resembling more a small storage area than a proper shop – oozed claustrophobia and filled the room with a stuffy smell. Guns and ammo shelves had cobwebs slinking through them, the remaining ammo hastily spread around the counter. Impossible prices shined under the glass showcase and onto the walls. That was nothing compared to the countless dangerous guns shining on the front of the store. It was as if they’ve been waiting for the survivors this whole time.

"Oh, Sweet Jesus, look at all these guns!"

"Candy store for adults."

Swiftly, the team hoarded the most enticing guns, armoring themselves. Ellis vibrated, his eyes gleaming like flashlights in the dark. He strapped every weapon he touched: hunting rifle, auto shotgun-

"OH MAH GOD, IT'S CHRISTMAS!"

A grenade launcher. Ellis’ head wanted to implode. His hands trembled as he took it into his grasp. This is what a cat must feel like waiting to pounce on a mouse. The group busied themselves with considering possibilities and loading empty magazines, greedy like hungry orphans in a free cafeteria.

The speakers crackled.

“Hello there. Now, normally when four bloodstained looters break into mah store, Aah would shoot them where they stand. But you happen to have caught me at an opportune time. Take what weapons you need and come on upstairs. Aah reckon we can come to an accordance.”

Gazes met and bodies stiffened. Tense, they all awaited the other’s reaction. Everyone except the conman, who installed a laser sight to his SCAR with a lazy smirk.

"Just so you know – I'm not legally allowed to own a gun... hope everyone's okay with that."

The eldest smirked in return, relaxing at the man’s nonchalant tone.

"I don't know how to shoot one, guess we're even."

Upstairs, the team emerged before a locked, white door with a slot at the bottom.

“Aah'm guessing you four'd be heading to the mall for rescue. And Aah further guess you won't get there, as the road is blocked. Aah know because Aah watched CEDA block it. So here's what Aah propose. Aah've barricaded myself on the roof, with provisions and guns enough to and kill every zombie in the city five times over, and eat well while Aah'm doing it. But in my haste Aah forgot to pack Cola. Cola and nuts is a weakness of mine – though Aah do not love it so much that Aah'd be fool enough to die in the attempt to procure it. So here is my proposition: If you go find me some Cola at yonder food store, Aah'll clear that CEDA blockade for you.”

“Aah kin understand that, man needs his snacks.”

The youngster turned then, grimacing behind his back in a quiet voice:

“Man, this guy's weird.”

Nick chuckled, amused by the mechanic’s comment, Ellis’ face sprouting a proud smile at the reaction.

“I have never killed zombies on a snack run, but today is a day of firsts. If you don't mind us using your guns to do it, we're good to go.” The football coach’s voice boomed, determined.

“Aah’m a man of mah word, sir. Procure me mah Cola and Aah’ll open the path to the mall for you.”

The mini grocery store had been a bargain shop for those people looking for sales and cheap prices. The store had most of the essentials that customers could want: frozen foods, produce, bakery and of course – beverages.

With the threat of The Infection breaking out in Savannah, people had rioted and looted the store, leaving it completely emptied out except for some dog food and one case of Cola. The owner had obviously tried to stop the looting by closing the front doors and activating the alarm system.

“This isn’t gonna be easy – alarm’s on. It’s probably gonna alert every zombie in the area.”

“Aight people, here’s the plan: I’ll run with the cola while ya’ll protect me. Boy, you go up those stairs and put that sniper to good use – don’t want any more of those Jockeys ridin’ me around- “

“Mouth draah… Can’t think straight. You folks better hurry before Aah change mah maand.”

“I’m gonna break that man’s teeth.”

“Nick, naw don’t be like that…”

Ellis’ puppy eyes stilled the conman. Stiffly, he turned around and crossed his arms, blocking him off. Coach observed from the side and as the scene settled, continued:

“Nick, you go protect that boy’s back. Girl, you’re with me. Ok, we ready?”

Everyone nodded and Coach pushed the doors, activating the alarm. He ran straight to the beverage section and unsurprisingly, the Cola waited for him there. No commons had entered the store yet so he ran past the shelves and towards the entrance. There, a mass of zombies poured at him in waves. He put his weight to his shoulder, slamming them to the side – a maneuver he knew all too well. Bullets sprayed all around him. Hands pulled at his clothing. Still, he treaded forward strong. He threw a glance from time to time at the woman behind him, making sure she stayed safe. Rochelle, however, handled the situation with a strong vise – her AK-47 mauling everything before her. They rounded the corner and that’s when he heard the scream.

“GET OFF, GET OFF!”

Mind blank, he dropped the Cola to the ground. Ripping the crowbar from his belt hoops he ran back, decapitating the dark hooded figure. The alarm blared in his ears, but his sole focus was on checking on his fallen teammate. Her face had gone gray and she struggled to get up.

"Oh shit, come on, get up."

He took her under the elbow and lifted her in one fell swoop.

“Come on now, let’s finish what we’ve started.”

The men up top did a good job at covering them as they made their way to the stairs. From there Coach sprinted towards the white door while Whitaker’s voice boomed commands through his ears.

“Quick, put it in the slot!”

It only took a second before steel and fire rained where the tanker once stood.

"That's how I used clear a path when I played college ball!"

“I gotta respect that!”

“Whooo, kick ass!”

"Enjoy those cola and nuts, man! Thanks for the guns!"

“Good luck, gang. May you find rescue in that mall.”

The rocket had cut the alarm cables too, stopping the flow of rotting infected. Ellis’ whole being buzzed, pumped up and ready. However, as the empty parking lot shined before him, it did something to him. The thrill he felt minutes ago had all but melted into the ground. His thoughts – filled with worry and excitement – collided with one another in his chest, giving birth to irritation.

“Aah swear tah God CEDA better be in that mall.”

The mechanic’s boots were getting heavy and acid settled behind his ribs. The sun clawing onto his bare arms and neck only fueled his agitation further. His fingers, unused to the constant gun handling, had started developing blisters, and as fun as it had been to rip zombies apart with his shotgun, he wished he could leave it behind and reunite with his family.

Even with no signs of life coming from inside, Ellis still held hope and firmly closed the armored door once everyone got inside.


	3. Mall

The survivors got lucky enough and were able to push a few smaller shelves into the safe room, blocking the entrance where ravenous claws snatched at their faces. During the process, Coach tugged at the front while Nick pushed at the back of a shelf and just as he was entering the room, an infected sneaked behind him – its nails tearing through his suit, catching flesh.

“Shit!”

Ellis quickly slammed the door shut, blocking any further invasions. Even so, pain bloomed at the back of his throat, as it had been his job of protecting the unarmed man’s back. The hot eyes searing into the back of his skull didn’t help his turmoil much either. Avoiding the northerner’s gaze as much as he could, the mechanic reloaded his rifle with the ammo splayed on the nearby table. He didn’t like how quiet the mall felt considering it was supposed to house an evacuation center.

"Maybe the evac center's a lil’ deepur into the mall?"

No one met his eyes; his stomach folded in on itself. The southerner didn’t want to stay and dwell – his body pushed him to go out and fight his way through the masses. Someone out there had got to be waiting for them – he couldn’t just sit still and rot away like a vegetable in the rain.

“Ugh, GOD, I hate malls!”

All attention rooted to the conman, who was looking through the steel bars into the vastness of the mall.

"Man, Aah love malls. Aah do. Once, Aah was in this mall, up in Atlanta, an’ these guys were dancin’ fer like money an’ stuff an’ mah friend Dave an’ Aah was all like..."

“Not the time, sweetie.”

“Okay.”

Kappel’s eerily deserted atmosphere housed only a few infected shoppers. The group took them without much of a fight. Empty shelves and overturned mannequins diminished the usual friendly atmosphere of families walking around and mothers pushing their sons to buy a new pair of underwear.

Nick’s shoulder ached as his body strolled around like a rag doll on strings. He’d exhausted every reserve he’d owned in the blind haste to the mall, now running on nothing but his body’s moisture and hard cold determination. He hated malls: their cheap interior, overpopulated busyness and unclean environment. The people bumping around, the pickpocketers; all individuals he didn’t want to converse with, didn’t want to be a part of. The only acceptable time for him to go shopping has always been during the unforsaken hours of the night when everyone he didn’t want to exist slept. The conman never complained either – the stores had just the style of clothing he needed: elegant suits and casual but stylish everyday attires.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glance of the smallest member of their group. He stood before a tall men’s mannequin, staring it down. Unfastening the axe oddly strapped to his coveralls, he swiped at the figure, chopping its head off. This made the younger let out a dumb snort which Nick reciprocated with one of his own.

Nick wasn’t in state to avoid the truth – the boy was cute. Yes, an annoying and dirty redneck, but handsome enough for the gambler to play his cards for a night. He couldn’t peel his eyes off him: the way Ellis’ hips cocked rhythmically side to side when he walked, the way he’d stared at him, squished against the conman’s chest in that hotel, that cocky smile he’d had inside that gun store; it all led Nick to a totally different corner of his mind, sending ripples down his spine.

Up the escalator, the situation stayed just as eerily empty as downstairs. At the end of the room bodies splayed before them – once uninfected people, now nothing but mangled guts. They were toppled on top of one another like warehouse pallets; some dragged, others oddly clean. That didn’t scare the survivors, however, as they crouched under the gaping door. It became truly disturbing when the same scene played itself again at the end of the elevators… and again at the small sitting area… and again at the food court-

"...poor food court never stood a chance..."

“This isn’t right.”

The conman knew his first line of defense was his gut – it had saved his skin more than once before. So when upon going up a giant, meaty figure roared at him – he ran.

“Get back, get back!”

Despite his enormous bulk the ferocious figure caught up to the group incredibly fast. It swiped with its giant fists at the survivors, sending nearby zombies flying.

“Holy shit – what is that?!”

"Oh, Lordy! That's a big-ass thing!"

Each took a turn emptying their guns at the hulking mass. It moved like a monkey in a cage – wild and uncoordinated. Even so, it still wouldn’t go down, absorbing bullets that barely left a scratch. Ellis tried stumbling it with his grenade launcher which proved futile, and only used to fuel its anger further. The fight continued for a few more minutes until the zombie turned its whole attention to Rochelle, who stood cornered against the wall.

Panic took over each man’s body as they all attacked simultaneously with everything they had. Just as it swept its giant fist at her, it fell to its knees with a tired groan. Nevertheless, the momentum of its fist didn’t slow down – punching the survivor in her side. She let out a pained yelp, scurrying away from the dead body.

Both of the grown men were immediately at her side asking if she was okay, except Ellis, whose attention was rooted to Nick’s shoulder. The injury peeked from underneath, red and harsh, cutting everything else from the hick’s attention. The man stood slightly hunched to the side, trying to puff up the material that probably rubbed roughly against the injury every time he moved. The mechanic observed just a moment longer before muttering:

“Nick, yew okay?”

Everyone snapped at him, confused. The conman bore his eyes, piercing ice into Ellis’ skin. The southerner held his gaze however, determined to help his teammate. Rochelle in the meantime took a closer look at the injured shoulder and cringed at the sight. Coach lifted the broken material up with his pinky, making the gambler jump to the side, rooting his gaze dangerously to the group. The whole scene felt like cornering a wild animal: Nick studied them, eyes furrowed and body taut – ready to lash out.

“Nick, honey, let us clean you up – we don’t want the wound to get infected.”

No visible reaction came from the man, but his shoulders did sag a little. He regarded the group for a long moment before circling around them and whisking towards the bathrooms at the end of the hall. The rest of his group followed, keeping their distance.

The hall was long, hollow and dark. Rochelle instinctively stayed out of the men’s bathroom as Nick made his way inside. Ellis hesitated too, not knowing if he should follow the man after calling him out the way he did. Coach however, seemed unfazed and only sighed annoyed.

“Boy, you go help that man – I’ll keep Ro company.”

Ellis took a grounding breath and pushed the door, entering inside. The dark and quiet dominated the wide space. Nick had set his SCAR in the round sink, its flashlight illuminating the room. Even so the light spread around so much it gave just a futile effect. Nick stood before the small bathroom mirror, his shirt already off and onto the counter. He was rummaging through the packed med kit, gathering the needed supplies.

Ellis cleared his throat, causing the older man to turn around and regard him coldly. The mechanic’s heart climbed into his throat as it beat in quick, tight thumps. Caught by surprise, he picked at his fingernails not sure where to look – the expanse of Nick’s chest was covered by hair up from his collarbone down to his belly button. Ellis’ face heated and it traveled all the way down to his fluttering stomach, curling into a hot ball. The two men stared at each other for a few long moments, unmoving. Ellis cleared his throat then, once again, and awkwardly pointed towards the med kit displayed on the counter.

“Yew, uh, yew need help with that?”

The conman forced air through his nose and turned, revealing his sore shoulder to the mechanic. The scratch had tuned into a red pool, some of the blood congealed around the edges. The skin, angry and agitated, was starting to swell up. Ellis quickly got to work wetting a gauze pad with some water and cleaning around the scratches. He could barely see where he was touching in the dim lighting, and furthermore, had to tiptoe to be able to even reach the agitated area. The position was already making his calves ache – and they hadn’t yet begun disinfecting. He swallowed the lump wedged in his throat before weakly asking:

“Nick, kin yew bend a lil’? Aah kint reach…”

The southerner shrunk, pulling his shoulders forward. The man before him paused and Ellis thought he’d get kicked out of the room. Yet, Nick wordlessly hunched to the side, allowing for the mechanic to continue. The man’s head elegantly followed the motion – chin, landing behind shoulder, eyes downcast.

Ellis let out a breath he didn’t know he held. Tearing an antiseptic wipe open with his teeth, he dabbed on the scratches, blowing air to soothe the stinging. The light coming from Nick’s SCAR bounced off the walls and illuminated the strong shoulders filling his vision. The muscles, smooth and solid, were covered in small, dark dots. Only when he looked closer did Ellis discern – those were miniature moles. They covered his whole back, some of them slipping under the man’s belt, out of sight. Alarming needles prickled the back of the Ellis’ mind, prompting his eyes to shoot up, focusing on the other’s face. This proved a dire mistake as the man stared right back at him, eyebrows arched, confused.

The sensation that gaze sent through him resembled one of being kicked. It traveled swiftly and he couldn’t do anything as it sent hollow sparks through his system. Seconds later, Nick relented, letting the younger breathe. Ellis used the given opportunity to quickly duck his head down and snatch the roll of gauze. He hesitated, opening his mouth, but closing it just as quickly. He unrolled the gauze and started wrapping it awkwardly.

“Aah don’ know what Aah’m doin’ so jus’ hold on a minute.”

Nick only scoffed in response, wiping Ellis’ unsure smile.

Outside the rest of their team sat on some nearby boxes, holding a casual conversation. They acknowledged the men’s approach and the group continued up to the second floor.

The team’s way was marked by yet more bodies and a beaten down door. The other refugees have tried making it through only to get caught and mauled to death by the ferocious monsters. A few toppled vending machines led the survivors further until they came across a kid’s toys store. It was just as empty as all the other stores they’ve been through except for a few plushies sitting in the corner.

"I get a sinking feeling this alarm's gonna get us some attention."

“Alright people, no stopping now.”

Bullet connected to glass and the alarm started shrieking. The survivors swiftly maneuvered through the broken pieces and ran up the escalator.

"Is there some way to turn off this alarm?!"

Following the ringing the team was led to the entrance of a security room. The zombies poured through the tight door like fish out of a broken aquarium. Ellis and Coach made work of their melees as Nick and Rochelle covered them from behind. Finally, the men made it inside the heavily monitored room enough to stop the blaring noise.

"You know what, I can take the zombies, but not that goddamn noise."

“Mah ears ain’t never gonna stop ringin’.”

The team wandered through the back door and found a fire exit. Following it led them to a hastily constructed evacuation center. It was deserted, leaving the painful sensation of a punch to the gut in each survivor.

"Agh, Jesus, I knew it! There's nothing here!"

“Yeah, I’m not getting a strong ‘we’re getting rescued’ vibe here.”

“Man, this is…this is awful…”

"Okay, so the evac station's abandoned, _and_ we're at the center of a zombie-filled building. On the bright side? We're all probably gonna die."

“Looks like we’re gonna hafta git outta the city on our own.”

"I hope somebody got out all right...Come on ya’ll, some of the refugees must’ve built a save room.”

And one they’ve built, which welcomed the survivors into its gloomy safety.


	4. The Atrium

An electric lamp perched atop some wooden crates barely illuminated the hastily built room. The survivors weren’t supposed to be there in the first place, considering the state of construction: naked wood covered the walls and ceiling, giving not much of a defense against the outside world, as proven by a few swollen cracks made by force from outside. The mall had obviously had plans on renovating the place – building extra space for the upcoming shoppers. The shoppers long dead or infected.

A chainsaw stood abandoned on some wood planks, wood chips spayed all around it. Coach took great interest in the tool, setting it beside his feet.

"Anybody know who the race car guy is?" Rochelle’s voice echoed in the silence.

"That's Jimmy Gibbs Jr. The greatest draahvur ever tah climb intuh a stock car."

"Jimmy Gibbs Jr... yay."

"I'm getting sick of looking at this guy's face."

"Well, trust me - in these parts? He's as famous as... Elvis. Or the President."

"That man is the praahd of Georgia. If the laws of nature allowed it, Aah would bear that man's children.”

The remark prompted a brief exchange of looks between the other survivors. Nick analyzed the poster again. The racer appeared a little older than Nick; gold-brown hair and a fading beard shining on the glazed poster. He stood proudly before the American flag, looking off in the distance, eyebrows furrowed in thought. It made the conman snort.

"Aw, shiet, we missed ‘im? Yew know what, that's the last straw. These zombies jus’ made themselves an enemy."

The mechanic stormed out of the room, invisible steam fuming out of his ears. A few steps out he froze, presented with the sight of bathrooms. Bare shoulders and strong back muddled his mind, making him grip his sniper. The rest of his team mistook his rosy embarrassment for the healthy flush of anger and Coach patted his back sympathetically.

The crash of glass and metal accompanied the screams erupting from the back of the corridor. Infected poured at the survivors like hot coals, forcing them to run for their skins. Quick feet carried Rochelle to the elevator first and she frantically pushed the various buttons. Coach followed, his body serving as a lighthouse to the last two survivors.

Ellis clutched his sniper tightly, his legs continuously getting caught on the ends of his coveralls as he ran. He tripped; a zombie snatched him. And then another one. And another one – until he was choking, pulled back into the terrifying mass. He frantically scraped with his legs, but lifeless muscles pulled fiercer, lifting him off the ground, removing any kind of balance from him.

Arms yanked at his elbow forcibly, dislodging the unrelentless appendages in one swift pull. Ellis was pressed against solid chest as nails scraped his skin, desperately clutching. The cold sparks of panic rose in his chest ricocheting towards his limbs. His mind muddied as his lungs ceased to move, forcing him into hyperventilation. He let go of his sniper and clutched at the shirt in front of him instead, pulling at the man’s lower back and locking in place. He felt the way Nick’s grip was slipping – at the brink of just letting go of the mechanic and running to safety. Ellis clenched even tighter, all the while the northerner and infected played a gruesome game of tug of war.

"Goddammit! **_EAT THAT SHIT!"_**

The merciless roar of a chainsaw crammed Ellis’ ears and seconds later he got launched like a rubber band across the elevator. Knees connected to floor, sending stabbing pain up his joints. His arms pulsed and his heart pounded inside his brain. The mechanic’s gaze connected to the ground floor, where more infected roamed around, ready to devour them whole.

“Holy shiet…”

The group’s situation sunk into him like ice, materializing into a ball inside his stomach. He couldn’t feel his fingers – they were cold on the elevator carpet. A broad hand crossed his vision, making his heart jump. Coach pulled him up, patting his back with a heavy hand.

“Hey,” Rochelle handed him his sniper, “let’s get some revenge for Jimmy Gibbs.”

She smirked reassuringly and he grinned in return. The elevator slowly glided down the shaft towards the first floor, prompting each survivor to shift on their feet.

"Aight, so... Gettin' evac'd ain't happenin’. Anybody got an idea, now's the time."

"Aah've got an idea. Jimmy Gibbs Jr. ain't gonna maand if we borrowed his stock car – he's a very generous man. We jus’ gotta faand it, gas it up, an’ Aah'll draahv that thang tah N’Awlins mah damn self."

“I think the little guy’s onto something. Let’s give it a shot.”

"Ha ha! All the way to New Orleans! Baby, that sounds like a plan."

"Well... it's a plan. I don't know if it's a good plan, but it is a plan..."

"Now remember: they don' fill up the tanks at car shows, so we'll hafta faand sum gas."

"’Soon as these doors open, get ready to _move_."

The elevator nestled into its mold with a sharp ding, sending nearby zombies at the group. They crowded around the doors – a wild wave without an end. Coach met them, bellowing with rage. He sliced through the infected like bread, eyes hungry for more. Ellis ran past him with Rochelle following close behind. They let the men fend for themselves.

“Faand the gas cans!”

“Over there!”

Gas cans lazily sprawled behind a decorative tree, waiting to be picked up. The mechanic grabbed both of them, surprised by their lightness. He sloshed them around momentarily.

“Damn, they have nothin’ in ‘em!”

Still, he treaded on, until through the masses of infected, he saw her – Jimmy Gibb’s stock car. His jaw went slack, his steps slowed to a respectful jog, the world around him faded into smudged spots. His heart bounced loudly in his chest and his knees filled with water.

The way she shined in the brightly lit afternoon light. The way her proud owner watched over her like an angel from heaven. The disgusting squelch under his feet. The tropled viscera. The rotting stench. He stood in a heap of dead bodies. His skin covered with needles. He slid off their limbs and hurried to the shining vehicle.

His team scurried around as he poured, dropping gas cans at his feet. It continued for a while, until a brutal roar bellowed through the air, splitting through the chaos of zombies. Ellis’ stomach turned rock hard as the same enormous infected from before spotted him, pummeling everything on its way to the mechanic. He immediately dropped the cans.

"GIANT THANG!"

Coach fired first, perched on top of the stairs to the far left. The monster turned clumsily, taking any zombies with it. It picked them up and catapulted them towards the elder who dodged without missing a beat. It roared again and Ellis opened fire, bringing it his way. Nick joined him, perched on top of the other stairs. He took chunks off the back and the monster groaned in pain. Enraged, it pounded its knuckles, splitting the tiles.

"AGH! LET GO! LET GO! LET GO!"

A second taken from the mechanic’s attention was all it took for the meaty figure to thrust its hands into the floor below it and throw a tiled chunk his way. Nick’s body collided with his own, the rough cement crashing into the small shopping booth centimeters from the men.

“I can’t breathe, get it off me!”

Ellis lurched to his feet, axe in hand. The producer was pulled deeper and deeper into the puddle of zombies and the mechanic teared his way through; the taste of blood on his lips and the crunch of bone between his teeth. He reached her, twisting his body and sticking the blunt side of his axe in the Jockey’s skull. It gave a dull thump and Rochelle slumped, her legs giving out. Her blue face struck Ellis like a rock, and his stomach filled with gasoline. He frantically fought off everything coming her way as she caught her breath in shameless gulps.

The giant creature had long slumped down in the meantime, defeated under Coach’s fire. Nick loudly grumbled to the car as he poured the rest of the gas in.

"Come on... Come on..."

"Piece of shit gas, GET IN THE CAR!"

"How big is the tank of this thing?"

The last comment cracked a smile on Rochelle’s face and she straightened to her feet. Her skin had returned to its usual chocolatey color – alertness and determination radiating from her. She plowed through the mass with her AK, her biceps flexing from the push of her rifle.

Ellis sprinted through the various constructions in search of the last bit of gas. He found the jerry can next to a bare plant pot – its side leaking from a small hole. The door behind him burst. It was the same hulking zombie; it cornered the southerner with its mass. It flexed its body, facing him. The rattling of bullets sprayed blood on the walls, accelerating the zombie towards him.

The mechanic’s heartbeat ascended inside his ears, trashing deafeningly. The room became impossibly bright, making his eyes sting from sensitivity. Every move the zombie made amplified inside his head until his instincts overrode every thought and he threw himself off the second story, landing on a construction below. He bolted towards the car, the corners of his eyes charred by panic. The sharp whiff of gasoline attacked his nose, watering his eyes. His team scrambled inside the car and he followed suit, jerkily turning the keys.

“Hit it, Ellis!”

“Punch it!”

"Go, Ellis, go!"

A hysteric smile plastered onto his face as he pressed the pedal, provoking the screech of tires. He lost control, slamming the side of the car on the elevator wall. Righting it, he faced the bordered exit and slammed through the glass with a maniacal whoop, crushing the wall of infected in front. The whole group cheered, holding tightly onto the metal pipes.

“Whooohoo, next stop N’Awlins!”


	5. The Riverbank

"Jimmy Gibbs Jr. is "The Man." Aah mean, Aah don' know anybody laak that, man. But there was this guy Aah knew, he raced dirt tracks, not stock cars but open-wheeled cars, yew know, an’ he was racin’ once an’ a goat- "

“Why don’t we just try quiet time for a while?”

“Okay… but there was a goat.” The mechanic scoffed before refocusing his attention on the road.

Since their escape from the mall the car had been filled with a constant stream of Keith stories and Coach’s exhausted snoring. Bees beat inside Nick’s skull relentlessly, in search of an escape. He’d tried closing his eyes and drowning in the noise of the rain, but the southerner’s chatting served as a constant obstacle. His body was sapped, wanting to collapse, but his mind was electrified.

The simple act of counting cans had triggered the ferocious urge to gamble. It hurt to be away for too long; weakness shackled him in place, his body penetrated by deep aches, struggling to act rationally. His addiction showed no mercy, it became his everything: his spouse, his family, his doctor, his mind and soul. He became someone that would sicken most, but his addiction didn’t pay attention to that – it accepted him with open arms.

To imagine the pain, you need to imagine a rat gnawing at your living flesh. Imagine having a stick to poke that rat away, and if you poked it you’d be filled with the most glorious feeling of contentment and warmth. Now imagine losing the stick and letting the rat keep on gnawing. Feeling every sting on blood. Every tear of flesh. The way it chews and chews before wrenching your heart from within you.

The northerner rubbed at his temples, focusing on the gentle pitter patter on the car’s roof.

“Guys, what _were_ those thangs…?”

“With how massive they were? Fucking tanks if you ask me.”

“The news did report that people with high testosterone levels were more prone to mutations. Not only that, but people with mental or terminal illnesses too…”

The rain increased just for a moment before returning to its gentle spray.

“Whatever they were, let’s just hope we don’t meet them again.” The gambler concluded, sinking back into his thoughts.

Rounding the corner, the car came to a rolling stop. Rochelle gently nudged their eldest member who snapped out of his nap, groaning tiredly. The group exited the vehicle, disappointment sinking in – the bridge was up and there was no way for them to lower it. Each searched for a solution in the other. What now?

"Yo, mah buddy Keith had his car drop in a lake off a bridge jus’ laak this one here... Yeah, see, he was drivin’ over it late at naahght an’ there in the middle of the bridge was what looked like, in Keith's estimashun, like a dead bear, so Keith gets outta his car tah faand a stick tah poke at it, raaght? Well, it turns out it's jus’ sum lady's fur coat that musta’v fallen outta her car, so, hey, free coat, raaght? Now, owls won't normally attack a man, but in this case, they were hungry, an’ that made them _reckless_ , man. Keith reckons they musta been there for _hours_ watchin' what they thought was a bear carcass, 'cause ‘soon as he picked it up, them owls had claws in him an inch deep. Well, Keith figures his best bet is tah jump in a lake, 'cause owls kint swim. Well, them owls could. He fought them fer laak 20 minutes treadin’ water, an’ durin’ that taahm, … uh…”

The sudden flashing of light from above skimmed through the group. It caught the drops of water soaking the northerner’s exposed collarbone and hair, highlighting them. Ellis eyed how the drops pooled on the bone slightly, before gently running down into his open shirt, soaking his chest.

“… a boat came, the bridge went up an’, um, down went Keith's car…”

Ellis met the northerner’s puzzled look; it made tingling sweep up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat forcibly, continuing his story.

“…. Man, sumtaahms nature's jus’ tryna teach us, if we'd only listen….” He chuckled uncomfortably and searched the faces of the rest of his group.

They were all looking up, however, and it was then the blaring light registered into his gaze. Looking up confronted him with the face of a young woman around his age, illuminating him with a tiny flashlight. She was staring at him and he stared back.

"Well, hello! Heh...hello... He-howdy, uh, beautiful weather, huh?... We're havin’ a, uh... Hubba.”

The mechanic dared a glimpse at the northerner just to be crushed by a stare in return. Nick hadn’t peeled his eyes off him this entire time, still gauging Ellis’ previous reaction. The attention Ellis spent studying the man stretched far too long to be a coincidence, and the southerner pulled his cap down muttering:

“Oh, God, Aah'm too nervous tah talk tah her, man; one of ya’ll better do this."

"You been killin' zombies for the better part of two days, boy, you can talk to a girl."

“Nah, Aah kint…”

The still sleep stricken elder just sighed, defeated, and righted his gaze at the girl.

“Hello there! You wanna let the bridge down for us?"

"Generator's out on the other side!"

"Y'all can't climb down there and save us a trip?"

"Sorry, can't! We got wounded up here. If you can get to the other side of the bridge, we can help you get it down."

"Got it. We'll holla back at you when we get there."

The mechanic stared at the lake, lips pressed tightly together. His attraction towards the northerner grew with each hour that passed. He felt stupid, _crazy_ in the presence of the other. The way he’d stared at the other man like a creep didn’t help either.

What would’ve normally been one or two stories on a long ride had turned into a dozen of them in the span of a few hours. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut – the silence and close proximity to the older man tensing his muscles uncontrollably, sending sharp jolts to his sprained ankle. After the adrenaline rush had melted he was barraged with the after effects of his jump off that second floor.

It was better than getting turned into a bloody paste against the wall, he supposed.

He limped his way to the hood of the car, plopping down unceremoniously. Untying his shoes, the mechanic seized his damaged ankle, massaging it gently.

“Historic under the river tour, now this could be pretty interesting.”

“Trust me, that won’t be the case, but if we go under the river, we can get to the other side of the bridge.”

Distracted by the men’s conversation, Ellis hadn’t noticed Rochelle making her way to him and sitting down.

“Ellis, sweetie, you ok?”

He gave her a what he thought was a reassuring smirk, which she didn’t buy. The mechanic sighed, showing her his slightly swelled ankle.

“Guess jumpin’ off the second floor didn’t end so well fer me.” He chuckled.

Worry creased her brows.

“You think you can walk with this? What if it swells more?”

“Yeah, it ain’t gon’ be no problem; these here are Keith’s old boots – his feet are a lil’ bigger than maahn so mah ankle won’ git stuck.”

The producer studied the ankle a little longer. She opened her mouth, but closed it just as quickly, shaking her head.

“Coach, can you come look at this for a moment?”

The big man approached, and taking a sight of the damaged appendage tsk-ed sourly. He took the ankle in his palms, feeling the bone. First, he ran his fingers through the outer knuckle to its main bone. Then, he checked just below the fibula, putting pressure. Ellis didn’t feel any pain until Coach bend his foot, to which Ellis jumped, slipping his injured appendage from the man’s grasp. The coach sighed heavily, standing up.

“The boy’s fine. Just gotta make sure to take it easy – no jumpin’.”

Various vehicles blocked the survivors’ path, so they turned through the chaotic park and into a convenience store.

The old building had its paint peeling off into sticky flakes and floors dirty with age. Cement stairs led to two ruined office spaces: they were equally empty except for two heavy duty lockers nestled against the wall. Inside, they housed enough medication to tranquilize an army of horses. Ellis chewed on a few of the bitter tablets, water not being a privilege he could indulge in. Pocketing some of the drugs, they continued to the final room, which turned out to be a bar.

The place was eerily empty. What usually would’ve been groups of chattering people and loud rock music had turned into sprawled stools and sunken booths. Along the peeling walls was every hue of amber liquid imaginable – enough to make you gag. The sharp smell of decomposition wafted up towards the mechanic, forcing him to cover his nose and mouth against the invasion. The sight of dead bodies was starting to get familiar, but the smell always brought something new with itself. 

Only two lights flickered weakly, showcasing half full bottles along the back wall. Nick slowed to a stop before them, licking his lips. He took a bottle, thumbing its label. The previously innocent beverage had now become a deadly weapon in the northerner’s eyes as he poured the liquid into tight beer bottles.

“Yew makin’ mollies?”

Nick shot him a smirk and grabbed a few more bottles. He leaned over the bar, tugging the shirt of one of the bodies over its head and onto the small counter. He tore it and stopped.

“Shit, there’s no gas.”

Coach sunk into one of the booths, placing his shotgun on top of the table. Rochelle moved her left earring around with her fingers, lips chewing softly. Ellis peered through the back door, gaze settling onto some abandoned cars. He carefully exited, attracting no attention from the wandering infected. A white sedan proved unlocked and he climbed inside in search of the keys. Lighting the dashboard proved the car had gas and he returned to his group, grinning.

“Aah jus’ about think how we could git us sum gas.”

After retiring a hose from behind the counter and a cup from downstairs, Ellis limped to the car, this time opening the hood. Coach followed behind him, circling around and leaning against the driver’s door.

Locating the Schrader valve, the mechanic removed its core, being careful not to drop it into the abyss of parts, and shimmied the hose over the whole fitting. He placed the other end in the soda cup.

“Coach, kin yew turn the keys to the ‘On’ posishun? Without startin’ the car though.”

The large man took a seat and did as he was told. With every on and off switch, a little bit of gas poured inside the cup. Not long after they had a full cup and Nick finished the Molotovs. Each survivor took one, strapping the bottle throats to belt hoops or coverall sleeves. The stacked cigarette machine provided lighters and they were ready to continue.

Ellis’ limping had increased, foot pulsing inside his boot. The group made sure to keep him in the middle, away from the incoming infected. They moved through the chaos of abandoned cars and lit apartment windows, arriving at the top street. It was riddled with flashing cars, mines ready to explode with a single touch. While most apartment doors were sealed with wood planks, there were two open for visitation.

Nick froze. He motioned for his group to stay still as he sneaked inside the building and out of sight. Muscles locked with every passing second without the man, weapons pulled out, lips attacked. Ellis brushed his sweaty palms off his stained coveralls, readjusting his fingers on the trigger.

Nick busted through the door. He snatched the mechanic mid sprint, eliciting a surprised yelp. A fleeting glimpse of hulking muscles was all Ellis got before Nick jumped onto a car on the bottom street, and hurried back towards the bar.

“Don’ stop runnin’!” Ellis shouted, voice shaking.

Coach and Rochelle followed close behind; the elder only stopping to light the mass on fire. The producer took cover behind a car. The Tank followed her, grabbing a neighboring one and throwing it her way. She escaped by a hair follicle as metal crushed against metal. The open gap it left served her to shoot at its flank, stumbling it enough for Coach to open fire, bringing it to its knees. It tried to get up, but every effort exhausted it. It ultimately succumbed to the fire and burned to death.

Ellis’ heart had climbed all the way into his throat as he clutched onto the northerner tightly. He’d wrapped his legs around the other’s waist and it wasn’t until the adrenaline subsided that he felt something squeezing his behind.

“Nick, yer uh… mah butt…” Ellis mumbled, eyes rooted to the stony path.

The older man let out a quiet “ _Oh._ ”, setting him down. The initial weight made the mechanic cringe, but the burning of his neck turned out to be a bigger distraction.

Crossing the apartments led the group to the streets; they were blocked on either side, forcing them to go through the park. Shiny decorations hanged everywhere, missing their playful beat. They all slowly led the survivors through the greenery, till they came across a gazebo. The faint chord of crying spread throughout the area. 

An emaciated bride dressed in a tattered gown sat crumpled on the stairs. Her loyal guests surrounded her, all awaiting the groom.

"Careful. I've seen a bride just like this before." The northerner hushed.

"Aah normally really laak weddin’s, but this’s jus’ weird… Ya’ll think she’s cryin’ ‘cause he left her at the altar?”

"I don't know what she's crying about, but at least she got married..."

"Shhh... Does anybody see the weddin’ cake?"

"Ain't seen none, Coach, but Aah'll yell if Aah do."

“Look, how about we kill her and move on, huh? Or you wanna stay here and chat all day?”

“Aah don’ know Nick… she be lookin’ kinda diff’rent than the zombies we’ve seen till now.”

“As long as you three have my back, I’ll go put a bullet through her skull.”

Ellis lent his shotgun and each nodded, sending him off. With every step he made, she growled louder. He pointed the shotgun to her head. Just as the zombies were starting to get notice of her rightened posture, he fired, blowing a hole through her face. What a moment ago was an idle public, had now turned into a furious crowd, thirsty for revenge.

The team repositioned under the gazebo as the infected poured from everywhere. They climbed over the steel fences, trampled each other on the stage, tore through the bushes; a minute-long earthquake, leaving nothing but destruction behind.

“Mm, now that’s a shotgun wedding.” The eldest noted as he skimmed the disfigured woman.

“That’s a good one, Coach.”

“Kinda feel bad killin’ this witch.” The mechanic popped next to the football coach, gaze saddened.

“That is a waste of a nice dress.”

“Even for us that was too weird.”

“Yeah, that shit was creepin’ me out.”

“Whole thang makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“Yeah…. Let’s just get out of here.”

Ellis limped over the zombies, tripping over their dismembered limbs. His mind was still focused on the dead bride. It made him feel as if she’d been a sign; that maybe his attraction towards the man wasn’t so wrong after all. Yet, Nick had mentioned seeing a bride like that, forming a hole inside his gut – he couldn’t be thirsting over a married man. Listless, he followed his team around the tents, and after they’d collected what they could get, shut the safe room door behind him.


	6. The Underground

The odor of wet cardboard wafted through the air. The tiny space once dedicated to the organization of the wedding, with its cork boards and catering receipts, was now their refuge. The wall, less than smooth against his shoulder, served as a nice resting place.

"Man, I just realized with all this runnin', climbin' and fightin', I ain't even had time to eat."

“Yeah. It’s been hell, all raaght.”

“I bet I’m losin’ some serious weight! Two more days… I’ll be takin’ my bell in a notch.”

“Not if we git that bridge down. We’ll be drivin’ the Jimmy Gibbs Junior all the way tah N’Awlins!”

“Man, I forgot about that.”

“Well, maybe if we faand a naace open stretch, we slow down, an’ yew kin jog raaght alongsaad. Laak in that boxin’ movie!”

The football coach chuckled, patting the boy’s back. Nick stared daggers at the younger man, who was too busy breaking his jaw, yapping about the girl on the bridge. From the shape of her hair to the color of her eyes, he didn’t stop for a second – pumping boiling water through Nick’s veins.

“Oh, man, that girl’s never gonna go fer a guy laak me…”

“Sweetie, she’d be crazy _not_ to.”

“Yeah, she’d be crazy alright.” Nick added, a cruel curve to his lips.

The mechanic visibly slumped at that, earning the conman a glare.

“I think Nick is just jealous.” She was joking, of course, but, nevertheless, it hit a nerve.

He sneered and burst outside. His chest bubbled as he shot any nearby infected. It _irked_ him that the southerner would just recenter his focus on some mediocre chick he barely exchanged a few words with. Not after he got caught staring at Nick on two occasions. The gambler wasn’t going to be put on the same level as her.

Going up the steps landed him onto a redneck convention: a pawn shop, a beer shop, “Jules’ Fresh Crawfish” and a tattoo parlor all huddled on either side of the street. The rain seeped through his suit, drowning the bandages around his shoulder. Any antiseptic had washed away long ago, leaving his wound vulnerable and throbbing. His thoughts jumbled and mashed together – hyper focused on every little price tag or number while trying to keep a hold of the wandering infected as well. Itches scurried through his fingertips, gun smoke serving as a reminder of late casino nights.

The thrill seeking lodged deeply into his temples, amused by Nick’s struggles. He could’ve never fathomed that his occasional nights out would turn into such desperation. It screwed bolts into his skull with each passing hour, beating him into misery. Surely, by the time they’ve reached New Orleans, he’d have gone insane.

“’Ey, that zombie has a Midnight Rider’s shirt!”

“Would you really want a shirt covered in zombie?”

One look told him enough.

“Disgusting.”

Ellis deflated.

The team took interest in the small tattoo parlor; its walls painted in passionate red and catalogues mounted on the walls. A female client lay slumped onto one of the chairs, her stomach butchered with a tattoo machine. Rochelle cautiously poked her with the end of her AK. Infected always caught her out of guard by snatching her ankles, sprawled on the ground.

The group browsed through the intricate drawings.

“I’ve got that one, that one, that one…Hell, I’ve got most’a these.” The eldest announced fondly.

Rochelle eyed him carefully.

“Where?”

“’Ey, Coach keeps his secrets.”

The woman gawked at Nick, horrified, and he smirked in return.

“Man, Aah love tattoos. Aah only have one, but Aah was gonna git mah truck tattoed on mah other arm. Damn zombies…”

“I’ve never done a colored tattoo.”

“Yew do tattoos?”

“Sure.”

It felt good to have the kid’s attention settled onto his back as he exited into the rain. Those eyes drilling into him with amazement, painting the air around him with awe. Only Nick was allowed such lavish attention; being sought after like the richest of golds.

His teeth clenched.

That’s the way things should’ve stayed from the beginning.

Due to the blockage of bodies, Nick climbed in through the window, motioning for the rest to do the same. The atmosphere inside the pool hall was quite cozy, even with every possible exit being barricaded. It also served as a yet another trigger, crushing his brain with a hydraulic press.

The desire to slide his cue along the smooth wood and observe as the balls rolled into each hole burned in his gut. The longing of the healthy weight of money in his pocket encumbered his movements. Rather than spray his brains on the wall, he stuck with his team and followed them down to the construction site. He kept walking mostly along the edge, but his shoes still managed to sink in the mud. Great.

A baloney figure waddled in their sight with a repulsive gurgle. Its skin, covered in massive boil-like growths, breaking at some places, revealing its bloated inner organs. A shirt barely encompassed half of its torso, stretched around its gut to a breaking point. It focused on the survivors, retching at them. Rochelle popped it in the nick of time, spraying blood and bile everywhere. Zombies flocked at the leftover corpse, tearing it down further. They pushed and shred each other like angry rock fans, all trying to get a piece of their idol.

The group slipped by unnoticed, taking refuge inside the “Red Flight” bar café. Old walnut ceilings hovered high above their heads, and the air, damp and musty, forced Nick to breathe through his mouth. The table placement induced the sensation of claustrophobia in him, only elevated by the muted noise of pattering rain. A secluded pool table shone in the back, surrounded by crude graffiti.

Someone had overflown the doorless toilet, boasting on the walls through small scribblings. The smell of shit and piss found a way to climb up Nick’s throat and into his nose, resulting in the sensation of taste. Acid crawled up his throat.

The second floor wasn’t any better – just a series of sleazy rooms reminding him of a disease ridden brothel. Light burned bright in one of them, tugging at his curiosity. A suitcase packed full of empty pistols and stacks of 100$ bills lay exposed on the raggedy matrass.

“I like the way this guy packs.”

The gambler opened his wallet, neatly stacking a generous sum of money into it.

“Nick, what do you even need this for? Change for the bus?” Ro quipped at him, full of wit.

“Ha ha, trust me – you can never be too rich.”

Up decrepit stairs and through creaky floors ended the group on the third floor. An unsturdy plank connected the two buildings together. The mechanic went first, accompanied by an automatic “Watch yourself on this thing.” from the conman. Nick wanted to slap himself, meanwhile Ellis shared a thankful smile from the other side; lip corners lifted, scrunching his eyes pleasantly.

It left a bitter taste on the roof of Nick’s mouth, so he ignored the gesture, crossing the plank coldly. He didn’t want to be the peasant who got a tiny quirk, while that girl got full grins and constant praises. He caught the kid’s smile melt from the corner of his eye, but kept moving undisturbed. ‘ _Reserve it for that chick since you like her so much.’_

The tunnel waited for them in the jazz club. From the way the club looked, Nick wouldn’t have paid even if he had to. Moldy, rusty, ugly; and they haven’t even gotten to the tour yet. The museum itself was even worse – its reception the only acceptable space. Clearly, without the barren bar upstairs, this place would’ve long been abandoned. Which didn’t look far from the case.

Rubble, piles of junk, bare pipes with gooey water slipping from between their cracks; a dumping ground. The distinct fermented smell of an old basement soaked the air. Ghostly footsteps echoed everywhere, in search of their rightful owner – bumping against the ears of the living instead. Infected tripped over splintered planks and bent buckets, jolting armed hands.

The next room was no different, except for the increased amount of rocker zombies.

“Aah guess this shit’s old huh. Aah don’ know, but…” Ellis muttered, eyes squinted behind his scope.

“So, it’s an antique basement then. Fantastic.”

“Well, _I’ve_ never had this much fun learning before.” Rochelle chirped, AK-47 molded quite naturally against her slim frame.

"Shit, they must’ve locked up all the history to keep it safe."

"Don' know whaa...Aah was thinkin' there'd at least be a couple of raahds in here."

“The only rides you’re thinking about are the ones your mom dropped you off of when you were an infant.”

“Nicolas.”

With the throbbing already pulsing through the back of his neck and shoulders, Nick only rolled his eyes, causing nausea to circle in his gut. The mechanic didn’t seem mad or upset, however – eyes too focused on the gambler’s pale face, eyebrows forming a sharp arrow. The worry painted on the kid’s face coerced the older man to quicken his steps, escaping the cramping sensation.

A board announced the end of the tour: small thermometer with a ‘ _To be continued…’_ at the bottom. The simplicity of it shoved a smirk onto the conman’s face.

"Phase two coming in 2010? Shit, phase one ain't done." The eldest gruffed, swatting his hand dismissively and turning to the stairs.

“From one conman to another, five bucks for this? I tip my hat to you Rayford.” Nick followed.

“Hope fase two has raads.”

“It better.”

A putrid smell bubbled down the steps, hot and heavy on the gambler’s nose. By the time he’d made his way to the end of the stairwell, it was unbearable. Part of said stairs sprawled destroyed under his feet, cutting any chance of going back.

“Let’s jump together, people- “

“CANONBALL!”

The mechanic threw himself down, landing on a couple of wandering infected like a sack of miry potatoes. He shot at everything like a maniac, looking up at his team with a grin.

“Come on ya’ll, Aah miss mah car!”

He pattered further without waiting for an answer – his short legs barely disturbing the infested water. Nick jumped last, splashing water in all directions. His whole body unleashed a violent gag reflex, convulsing on the spot. Rochelle’s lack of mercy made it worse, as she snickered at his side.

“Hey Nick, splash fight?”

“ _Don’t you dare.”_

The smell of shit, piss and puke embraced him like a soft blanket, which he so hard tried to pry off his body. He could feel every germ crawling on his skin, sticking to his pores. His headache had become even worse, a knife repeatedly stabbing all over. He’d begun sweating as well, his armpits clammy and wet. Germs tickled his skin in the worst ways imaginable, making his skin roll. The ungodly urge to burn himself alive, hung onto his every passing thought as water flowed between his legs – the unthinkable bumping against his feet. The sensation of sinking covered his arms in various goosebumps.

His obnoxious team stood in front of an automatic fence with Ellis hovering over the controls.

“Maybe we should jus’- “

The alarm exploded.

“Ellis, what the hell did you just do?!”

“Hey!”

Infected poured at them like starved rats, forcing them to run to safety. Wherever that may be.

“Back in the goddamn history of sewage.”

Water meant slower zombies, but it also meant _they_ were slower too. Ellis was by far the worst off – lagging at the back, the water inevitably weighing his busted ankle even further. Nick kept an eye on him, letting Rochelle and Coach lead at the front. Even the hick didn’t deserve to be left to die in a fucking sewer.

“I am walking through a toilet. Thank you, Jimmy Gibbs.”

The southerner huffed at him, pushing himself to run faster.

Chaos clashed around them as the infected fought against the flow of water and spraying bullets. Nick had taken to pulling Ellis by the elbow, the boy too tired to continue on through the knee deep water.

“A ladder!”

“Thank GOD.”

He pushed the mechanic to climb first, sewage dripping off his soles and onto the gambler’s face. Nick only smeared it further by brushing it with his sleeve.

A second gate waited to be activated.

“Try not to break it like the last one.” Coach chuckled, exhaustion clear in his voice.

Ellis limped to the buttons and pushed them at random, opening it yet again with a screech. Their path cut off once more, dropping them into more bubbling septic.

“Haha, more water Nick.”

“I hate you Ellis.”

The boy paused.

“Aah still laak yew Nick.”

His stomach shouldn’t have churned the way it did.

By the time they’d reached the end of the tunnel, the infected were pushing them on both sides. The brick construction forced Nick to stay bucked during the whole ordeal, not meant for men of his stature. The usually handy amount of pockets in his suit made him cringe - they were inevitably getting filled with crap as he ran. Their group cramped closely together, flashlights merging into one beam of solid light against the wall of living corpses.

When the survivors got to dry ground and climbed up the last stairs, they were positively wheezing, except for Nick, whose nostrils flared aggressively, trying to keep his cool. They all failed to notice the Charger who collided with the mechanic and snatched him from their grasp. It went straight through the metal fence, burying their smallest member in the muddy water.

Nick forgot everything about his previous exertion, jumping down the steps in broad strokes. Infected had already swarmed the boy, adding to the already deadly damage. The conman tore through them with his bare hands, pulling at the colossal arm bashing his teammate.

Only one word could describe Ellis’ expression in that second – open. Googly eyes split by primal fear, mouth gaping, choking on the thick substance he was submerged in. He desperately tried screaming, holding onto the beast’s arm as an anchor; failing each time to keep pressure for more than a second.

Nick stared horrified at how thin the southerner’s waist had become under the creature’s grasp. The axe he blindly wielded sunk at the calloused flesh, only halting at the bone. That arm continued its rhythmic attack undisturbed, until it fell off, releasing the southerner. Nick scraped at the bottom, bullets piercing the air around him. With Ellis’ body molded against his, his sprint to the safe room became nothing but flashing images and unintelligible noises – the rattle of the bar the only indication of an end.


	7. The Port

“Aah’m faan, Aah’m faan, really guys- “

“No you’re fucking not!”

“Honey, you were completely _crushed_ for a moment there!”

“Guys- “

“Don’t just ‘guys’ us you _moron_!”

“Are you sure you can walk yet? Shit, what if you need a doctor?”

“But- “

“Shu- “

“People! People, _please_. Let the boy talk. We can’t be sure how hurt he is until we let him speak.”

They all released a breath. Ellis cautiously tread the unsure waters of silence.

“Guys, Aah’m _faan_ , really, it don’ hurt. It was mostly the impact that stunned me.”

They continued to regard him, weighing his words inside their heads. A protective circle had surrounded his body, letting no one in or out. Only Coach had given him some space, leaning against a hollow crate.

The mechanic focused on Nick’s face, scoping his expression. It had a strange hollowness to it, one only a bedridden person would have. His eyes hadn’t changed though – sharp and witty, they always seized the situation smartly, keeping an eye on every possible outcome. Not once did Nick miss to map out the room like an expert, exposing the mysteries inside it. He kept a good eye on the group too – judging their every action; ready to lash out or praise.

The northerner stood up and swiped his hair back aggressively. He didn’t talk, only pacing around like a caged animal. Rochelle took Ellis’ hand in return, squeezing it gently. The rain outside hadn’t stopped its insistent barrage; the fall of bigger drops reverberating around the room like a cymbal. Its humidity couldn’t tame the electrifying buzz that increased between the group; the air so brittle it could snap, and the mechanic was sure he would follow.

“Thanks, fer savin’ me.”

Ellis’ lips barely moved, his facial muscles turning into cardboard. It broke the man’s dangerous trance however, locking him in place.

“Fucking whatever.”

Nick stormed out, followed by the sounds of his squelching feet. Rochelle squeezed his hand again, putting pressure for just a little longer, before she stood up, giving him some space.

Ellis used the moment of respite to check on his ankle. He had a hard time bending over, but he still managed to pull his soaked shoe and sock off. His ankle released painful throbs, free of its tight confinement. The whole side of his foot has turned blue, some of the colors traveling up the bottom of his leg, forming an imprint of a grotesque sock. He wiggled his toes and bend his foot, hearing it pop.

Coach crouched next to him, bandaging the injury tightly, carefully. It felt constricting, but immensely better. The water had pulled his damaged appendage harshly during the run, leaving him in constant pain. Nick acted as a godsend back there, dragging him through the thigh deep water and pushing him to climb to safety. 

And then Ellis fucked up by not being careful.

Nick was waiting for them just outside the steel door, arms crossed and gaze rooted to the other side of the bridge. Ellis stilled, seized by awkwardness. The conman didn’t give him the light of day however, going for the stairs. Ellis followed hesitantly, keeping some distance between them.

One uncomfortable climb up and the other group welcomed their team. The bodies of a couple of infected lay in a bloody heap at their feet.

"'Dee-Pec Mode'. Classy.” The biker ventured.

“Thanks… Nice vest.”

"Francis? Him? _Really?_ Tell me you're joking." The chocolate haired girl confronted quickly.

"What? Obviously she's a woman of taste."

Coach rolled his eyes, turning to stand next to Nick while the rest chatted. The man on the other hand had his gaze rooted on Ellis, who’d taken to babbling some story to the young girl. Nick seemed ready to shred him to pieces.

“Nick. Son. Don’t tell me you have a crush too.”

The man’s shoulders sagged at that, his telltale smirk stretching his lips.

“Well, _you’re_ looking pretty cute Coach.”

“Oh _hell no_ , boy-”

“Man, nice ride. That really Jimmy Gibbs’ car?”

“Yeah, yew got that raaght.”

“That’s amazing! You mean this car used to belong to the taco dog?”

“Yeah, Aah kno- Wait a minute, what’d yew jus’ say? Aah m- Jimmy Gibbs Junior was _a legend.”_

“Yup, you got that right. That dog made some damn good tacos. I wonder what ever happened to that dog. Hope he’s ok- “

“Kin we not talk ‘bout dawgs?!”

“Can we talk ‘bout lowering this bridge?” Coach cut them both, not leaving any room for more arguments.

“Alright. You just need to fill up that generator and we can raise the bridge! We can even help cover you from up here. But be careful though – the cans are split into different buildings.” The group’s beaming companion announced.

“Hey listen, thanks for the help. And when we lower the bridge down, you’re more than welcome to come with us. Hell, we can even leave Ellis behind to make room for ya’ll.”

“Hey, what?!”

“Thanks! Sounds good but I think we’re gonna stay on our own.” He chuckled.

“All right, understood. Ya’ll keep safe now.”

Nick was totally absent from the conversation, his focus lodged onto the generator. The mechanic limped his way to him, in search of what had his attention. The machine itself wasn’t anything special – Ellis had used such generators back at work where the risk of power outages or surges in electricity used to be common. They always wanted to protect their more sensitive equipment.

“You know how much this thing can hold?” The conman muttered, eyes not leaving the machine.

“’Bout 53 gallons.”

“Fifty- three exactly or…?”

“More laak 53.4.”

“Alright, got it…we need ten cans.”

And so Nick strode to the elevator, leaving a baffled southerner behind.

They all followed into it, slowly gliding down. Ellis fidgeted around, curiosity getting the better of him.

“So, uh…How did yew know how many cans we needed?”

“Math.”

“Oh.”

Ellis returned to staring at his boots till the elevator hit the ground.

“Alright people, let’s go find these cans and get outta here.”

A steel fence surrounded the generator on one side and the old, brick building on the other, forming a dead end. Behind the fence the other team took positions on a balcony, ready to watch their backs. Ellis tipped his hat at them politely and turned to walk up the street, when:

“Hey! Take this.”

He spun around just in time to catch a glass jar. It was filled with green, chunky…puke?

"Oh, man. A jar’s no place fer bodily functshuns."

"That can't be a bottle of puke, is it?"

“Looks laak it.”

“It’s Boomer bile. Works like a magnet for them zombies.”

“Oh… Well, thanks Francis!”

The survivors crossed the main street and through the gap formed by a fallen concrete barricade. Deeper in they found a renovated warehouse, a few gas cans huddled in the corner. The building was obviously an extension to the main warehouse, converted from an old shop. The shelves, almost completely empty, had only a few cardboard companions. The gas cans waited patiently for Nick and Coach to gather them.

The group returned through the back alley. The silence had just prompted Ellis to wonder why everything seemed so peaceful when the chemical toilets burst. Tanks. Two Tanks.

They ran.

Coach threw the other can at Nick, the man catching it without failing a step.

“Lead the Tanks back to the bridge!”

The team split in two, with Nick and Ellis being the prime bait.

“Louis git yerself ready baby we have Tanks comin’!”

Louis opened fire once the Tanks came into his field of vision. The wounded man stood perched behind the giant machine gun, stoic against its aggressive vibration. He had a grin on his face, the kind his buffy Keith would get before jumping into alligator infested waters. Ellis was so enamored by the unyielding attack that when Nick burst into the wall with a Charger, the southerner’s soul left his body. The conman wasn’t on the receiving end however, steering the Charger with his body weight and shooting repeatedly at its side.

“Ellis!”

Zoey warned him just in time as a car flew in his direction. It barely missed as he jumped to the side. The sudden weight crippled his ankle and he stumbled to his knees. The two Tanks toppled inches before him, torn to pieces by the gunfire. The mechanic rose on unstable legs, letting them continue their search for the gas.

Inside, the building housed a small bar. Light streamed through the cracks of the blinds, despite the rain outside, bringing with it a note of intimacy. The only support for the cheap interior was a Tuscan column – giving it some sense of quality. Ellis limped around the counter to grab the two cans neatly arranged behind it.

He placed them on the wood for the conman to take, yet no movement came from the older man. He looked up. Nick was observing him, his face deep and calm, a frozen picture in time. His eyes glided down to the mechanic’s spit-slicken lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own. An orchestra exploded in Ellis’ ears as the northerner leaned close, making him deaf for danger or common sense.

A breath glazed over his lips and his eyes fluttered… but no contact came.

“Your mouth was filled with shit water.” Nick whispered, and was gone with the cans.

Ellis stood, mouth agape. All the blood in his heart released at once, filling his face. He was stiff from the neck down, but luckily he didn’t topple over. Thoughts moved with lightning speed through the jelly in his skull: What did Nick just do? What prompted the sudden change? Memories of the sewer flooded back in. The man had been the first to jump down and save him. Then why the cruel words? Why the poisonous stares? What did he do wrong? Did his plan fail – is he angry that he likes men? Then why come so close?

He had no memory of going back out, yet now he stood next to his team as they filled in the last can. Rochelle had touched his arm at some point, worry clear in her voice. Ellis only shook his head and smiled in return, avoiding her questions. They ran back to the car, the survivors’ encouraging words steering them on. He climbed in the back seat.

Next stop New Orleans.


	8. Highway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicide mentions.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, only softness upon his wake. Wetness still seeped from the corner of his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, wiping it off the warm cushioning. He slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the things around him; his eyelids heavy and numb over his sore eyes. It didn’t take long for that dull pain to poke out however, slithering around his neck and back like a brace. With his side cramped and neck stiff, turning around proved a challenge. He managed, body curling even tighter around the core warmth.

He was just about to disappear yet again into the blissful unawareness of sleep, when that comfortable warmth gave a deep gurgle just above his head. Confused, Ellis unglued his stinging eyes, taking a deep breath – his nostrils immediately attacked by a damp, stale smell.

He stretched his neck lazily, his head bumping into something. He touched the impeding object with his hand, the distinct sensation of skin gliding under his fingertips. He took a moment running his pads through the hair, stilling at any bumps or rough textures, scratching and removing any dried spots. It was when he couldn’t go any farther that he opened his eyes fully and focused on the white sleeve dangling over his shoulder. A different stiffness enveloped his tired limbs as he peeked up.

The night was just giving its eternal guard to the day; only crisp edges left into the monotone sky. Lambent light covered the conman’s face, its soft glow blending any rough features into thin air, leaving a calm façade behind. Nick’s face was devoid of any particular emotion, his gaze glazed over and leisurely focused on the passing scenery.

Carefully, as to not disturb the man, Ellis twisted up, his middle throbbing from the taxing movement. Settled, he dared a glance back, only to find the man hadn’t moved an inch from his position, allowing the mechanic to let out a quiet breath of relief. He rubbed at his eyes, a yawn slipping out, moistening them.

“Good morning, shorty,” Rochelle’s usual enthusiasm chirped from the front seat. Only her thighs were visible from where he sat, taking just a quarter of the seat.

“Mornin’…” Ellis barely drawled, his mouth sour and sticky.

The mechanic’s stomach greeted the group too with a grumpy groan. He rubbed it, trying to tame the painful hollowness.

“Damn, wish we’d somethin’ tah eat...” His voice cracked with drowsy strain.

Coach didn’t miss a beat.

“Hehaha, well… Coachy might have just the right cure.”

Not breaking his gaze off the road, the elder produced a small red wrapping from his pocket. He let it hang over his shoulder, vulnerable to the boy’s hungry gaze. Ellis’ sleepiness evaporated in thin air as he snatched the chocolate, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. Just about to munch down, his mother’s heavy hand landed on his neck.

“Ya’ll… want sum too?”

“It’s all yours, sweetie,” Rochelle reassured him.

He hummed thankfully, mouth already full. Rochelle grinned at him through the rearview mirror and he returned the gesture, hiding chocolatey teeth behind an oil-stained hand.

Despite his appetite the confectionery turned heavy and sticky inside his mouth, the sweetness blistering his tongue. It formed a clump on its way down, forcing him to pound his chest. They’ve all been starved of water – what little he’d swallowed a result of that Charger in the sewers. Even so, he could consider himself lucky compared to the rest.

Soft nudging against his thigh distracted him from his struggle. He detached the vomit jar, turning it quietly around his palm. A thin glass surrounded the muddy fluid, a special eye bolt holding its lid shut. He needed a special tool to push the two ends together, but even so a good throw would break the jar for good. Its outworn label read **SAMPLE #0841** and **“BOOMER” EXTRACTION** , intriguing him.

“Ya’ll think we kin harvest this? Them scientists sure did,” he ventured, licking melted chocolate from the corners of his mouth.

He couldn’t make Coach’s expression on the small mirror, but his grousy tone sketched a good picture of it.

“Boy, what’s with you and puke?!”

“Ellis, I’m not too keen on the idea of walking around with puke against my thigh,” Rochelle sided with the elder, expression sternly digging into his face.

With no sign of backing down Ellis threw himself at Nick, hoping for a different opinion. His last line of defense was of no help however – the man listlessly browsing the landscape through his foggy window, attention a hundred miles away. Defeated, the southerner slumped back in his seat, the bile jar forgotten on his lap.

Without any vehicles or legal limits, the car flew over the highway, lights on full beam. The tires made their monotonous hiss over the rain-washed pavement, trees like a wet-on-wet technique passing by. This was an opportunity for the mechanic to let his thoughts roam free and his heart to explore new avenues. It decided to make a sharp turn towards the gambler next to him, practically throwing him through a windshield.

Ellis has had a few girlfriends in the past – friendly girls he didn’t want to turn down after the first date. Always polite and cute, thinking about their future and how they wanted to spend their lives; whether they wanted kids or to try to get to college, stay in the small town that was Savannah or move to a bigger city. It numbed Ellis, like watching a dream perched on top of an apple tree: he was but a pawn to be moved, pleasing each piece in a boring game of chess. The role of a boyfriend, their love, it never suited him – he just stood to the side, letting them in and then letting them out of his heart; happy to just stay and observe.

His infatuation with the gambler was on a different level however, the man being a polar opposite to his past relationships: cold and bitter he never missed the chance to whip his tongue at someone, biting at their confidence with his cruel words. He’d probably led a roguish and uncertain existence too, making him unbearably more attractive to the young southerner. Every time he caught a sight of the man, his brain woke up, his heart leaped in his throat and he felt like a fool in his own skin. He pushed himself to do better, to do things faster, to fight harder; he wanted to shine in front of the man. Falling asleep would cost him too much.

He wanted that powerful body to crush him, longed for those lips to bite his and make them bleed, and it made him _crazy_ because Nick was... Nick. A person of his statute wouldn’t be interested in a dirty hick with shit water in his mouth; who ran around screaming like a lunatic on the top of his lungs covered in guts and pus. A hick who never closed his mouth or stared at him inappropriately; who always found a way to hurt himself and be a bother to the team.

On top of that he was a _man_. Never had Ellis dared confronting his monster; the monster beat into him by friendly Sunday priests or friends with brainwashed views – Shame. Shame thrived on hiding, being kept away, locked deep inside. The more you ignored it, the bigger it got, until it forced you to surrender to other people’s expectations, wiping your sincere desires from the face of the earth.

He’s stared at the boys in his gym class, fighting that sense of Shame: tall youths with a healthy physique, surrounded by cheerleaders or keeping to themselves – forcing him to confront they weren’t what he yearned. They never stirred anything in him. Neither did girls.

It was when Keith invited him over to his grandpa’s house, the ancient TV blasting Jimmy Gibbs’ car race that he couldn’t peel himself from the screen. Keith had slapped his back, delighted by Ellis’ attention to the shiny 1969 Dodge Charger. And yet, Jimmy’s car wasn’t what caught the mechanic’s eye – it was the man himself. Head held high, shoulders carrying confidence, those facial cracks one would only get by experiencing the world; so much more different from those smooth boys, jostling, shouting, swearing. He’d excused himself early that night, running home and bolting up to the bathroom, scrubbing himself until his skin got red. It had been enough to tame the heat rolling in his gut, but not enough to keep him away from looking again.

And that scared him.

So he suppressed it.

But now it crept back and he had nowhere to run, no one to keep him back.

And Nick proved he cared about him after all.

He’d saved Ellis and kept an eye on him. He let him sleep and drool on his lap. Yet… they were so _close_ in the intimacy of that building and Nick had just left; setting start to a cruel game of cat and mouse, wanting to stretch the southerner thin and play around with his feelings – test what Ellis had. And strangely, Ellis liked it. His heart detached in his chest, bouncing around and hitting his walls, the giddiness making his leg jump. For the first time airiness turned into excitement and he looked forward to stepping on the man’s feet.

Despite the wetness, Nick’s suit jacket warmed him nicely, and he’d started dozing off once again, his inner monologue playing like a broken record over and over.

Coach swerved.

Ellis crashed into the conman, crushing him against the metal door. Arms settled around his waist, bolting him securely against the thick body. Rochelle’s scream got cut off by the belt digging into her side – only a choked rasp slipping out. In the small second of raw panic everyone floated, any memory of the apocalypse or their lives before lost. The swerve had ended just as abruptly as it had started, returning the previous habitat inside the tiny interior.

Shock electrified the survivors’ seats, keeping the team sharp and ready for a new turn. What they got, however, was rapid deceleration, the scenery clearing and the car slowing to a lazy stop. Broken shield glass provided little vision to the passengers, so when their driver motioned for them to exit, they didn’t question him.

And yet, when confronted with nothing but a peaceful horizon, questions did arise. Then, they discerned the cars. A lot of them.

A wall of wrecked vehicles, stationed just a few feet away. They clogged their path, backs turned towards the survivors, negligent of their hardships and trials. The group had just arrived at the West-Atlanta highway, minutes away from their most important junction. The once guaranteed safety had turned into yet another challenge forcing them to think on the go.

"Sorry, folks. This car’s capable of miracles, but it kint draav over 20 miles of parked cars. Aah think we're walkin'."

"Don't sweat it, Ellis. At least you got us out of that mall."

The mechanic definitely didn’t expect those to be the first words leaving the northerner’s mouth.

With his jacket occupied Nick was tightening the straps of his SCAR so they better fit his robust figure. The mechanic couldn’t help but notice how the straps underlined the curve between his pecs, making them pop. His weapon didn’t follow the curve of his back, instead cutting off over his lower back and reconnecting back at his ass. Traveling lower, the gun holster hugged his thigh tightly, showing off the fullness of the flesh underneath. Ellis subconsciously went over the man’s predominant bulge. He caught himself, swerving sharply up to his bare arms. With his sleeves rolled, black strings peeked from his right elbow – a tattoo of a spider web circling the entirety of the bone.

Ellis checked the man’s face just to find it studying his, eyebrows high and mouth quirked pleasantly. A quick glace confirmed the rest of their team occupied, letting Nick wink seductively in return. Burning, Ellis turned, readjusting his hat and rooting his gaze on the football coach. He on the other hand assessed their situation, weighing the best options inside his head.

“Let’s get back on foot,” he stated, leading them towards the sea of abandoned cars.

Their shadows lead the way forward, formed by the insistent headlights of the car. They danced over the black streaks left by tires long cooled and frozen. The grasshoppers hidden in the shrubbery chimed them on, singing their insistent, monotone notes.

“Check it out,” the conman broke their sorrowful trance, nodding at a highway board.

“Hey, Whisperin’ Oaks! Shit, I use’ta go there when I was a kid!” Melancholy hung heavily on the elder’s voice.

“Good, now we can die there as adults.”

The answer wiped any positivity on the elder’s face, replacing it with his usual stony expression.

Cool air forced them to open their lungs, inviting it in before crossing the barrier between peace and chaos. That same air kept them levelheaded as they looked upon the haphazardly spread cars, commons slithering between them. It conveyed the smell of decay, its source lying in the ditch where lumps of bodies rested. From his place Ellis could see how some missed heads or limbs, making something nasty settle in his gut: did they lose them before or after dying?

Bullets pierced through melting bodies, catching car shields, sending the shrill sound of breaking glass echoing through the air. Some of the infected shrieked, others fell down with no more than a groan, and they all dripped viscera over abandoned possessions. Ellis avoided looking around him as the more he looked, the more disoriented he got.

“These cars go on for _miles_.”

“Dude, if we had mah monster truck, we could’a driven over all this,” as if to fortify his point, Ellis made a broad stroke with his shotgun.

“Maybe they left them when they got rescued!”

“That’s…one theory.”

Rochelle peeked through some side windows, forehead creased.

“Damn, there were people attacked in their cars.”

And there were indeed – trapped between the crushed metal of their doors or gnawed through their windshields. Some of their attackers had never left their places, killing themselves slowly on the cutting glass.

“This is just a mess.”

The group swapped grainy pavement for the softness of dry grass, leaving the relative safety of the highway to try their luck in the ditch. Just as they crossed around the barricade of buses and cars, a gush of cool wind penetrated their clothes, leaving sharp goosebumps behind. Rochelle was by far the worst off – her thin frame barely covered by her soaking t-shirt. Ellis reflexively removed Nick’s jacket from his shoulders, draping it over hers. He received a fond pinch of his cheek for his troubles.

They refused the steep fall of the off ramp, checking for a faster shortcut behind a set of curved buses. There was indeed one – a pile of suitcases forming a staircase at the end of the road. Before it lay a fresh campsite; its fireplace still hot and lively. Not far away a line of covered bodies spread in a neat line, various blankets and towels covering them. Only one lay uncovered, draped over the small frame of a child, with a hole gaping in the back of his skull. Blood, opaque and shrill, still bubbled from his nose. Chunks of skull covered the collar of his shirt, slipping inside the nape of his neck.

No zombies could prepare Ellis for this scene. It found a way to flash in front of his face even after he’d turned away. It stilled his body’s momentum, forcing his hand up and over his mouth. You’d expect a feeling of nausea or shock, yet that was far from what fought inside the young man – regret had taken their place, guilt mixing with the metallic taste of blood and smoke from the fire. It had happened no more than a minute ago – his group just too occupied with friendly banter to notice. It had been deafened by the sounds of his shotgun or the sounds of Nick’s magnum, or Rochelle’s pistols scratching metal. Maybe even Coach’s childhood melancholy was to blame.

They could’ve saved him, tried to turn the tables of life and death, but they were too busy watching out for their own skins instead.

A heavy hand wrapped around his shoulders, steadily pressing him to the side. Coach’s gut, strong from years of exercise, rose and fell evenly. It then stopped, slowly filling the space in front of it as warm breath grazed Ellis’ ear.

“I can’t promise you we won’t be seeing this in the future, boy. What I can promise you however, is that it ain’t our fault. It ain’t _your_ fault, Ellis. Disasters break people, and even if you take them under your wings, even if you nurture and protect them – there’s no certainty they could fly on their own again.”

Finishing his biblical preach Coach squeezed his shoulder again and let go, his words hanging heavily in the frail air. Each member consolidated the boy in their own way: Rochelle patting his back softly and Nick settling his gaze heavily on his slumped posture. The elder led the group silently, head bowed respectfully. He struggled up the awkwardly positioned luggage, his weight not helping in his struggles. Rochelle followed naturally, her slim frame no obstacle against the sluggish pile. Nick followed suit, eyes checking all sides for any dangers while his feet moved swiftly across the pile.

And then was Ellis. Climbing with a sprained ankle wasn’t easy. He kept slipping on the leather suitcases, wet with remains of fog. His ankle slipped in between gaps and pulling it out resulted in painful throbs as his appendage was pulled around in various angles. Twice some of the suitcases gave under his weight, already damaged by the survivors before him.

It was when he got to the top that one of the bags strayed from the pile taking the whole mountain with it. Ellis crumpled forward, scrambling on all fours to get up. He was stuck between his efforts of running up and the mass pulling him down, getting lodged into a dangerous momentum. Nick grabbed his forearm just in time, snatching him on the bus. Coach and Rochelle had already jumped on the other side, ignorant of the ordeal he’d gone through.

Nick joined them effortlessly, but stayed close. Ellis scoped the height beneath him, and the gambler, as if sensing his distress, decided to make his choice easier.

“Come on. Jump.” Nick had his arms open, body almost fully pressed against the muddy metal. The mechanic slid forward, landing with an ‘oomph’ into the warm embrace. He took his sweet time letting go, secretly trying to prolong the touches. Nick, however, saw right through his antics, sprouting a shit eating smirk in return. The southerner only punched him weakly, pulling his hat over his eyes and mouthing a “Shut up.” defensively.

On the other side the highway stayed unchanged: narrow and cracked, the once white lines now a dull gray. Cement and steel mixed together forming the safety rails on either side of the road. A stray truck had lost control, crashing into the galvanized material, the driver half-hanging between the crushed fence.

“Search laaghts! Tha’s the first saagn of laaf we’ve seen in a 100 maals,” Ellis pointed at the horizon where a Ferris wheel went in leisurely circles accompanied by a few beams poking their heads through the morning fog.

"Well now, if we're pickin’ directions, I say we head towards the spinning lights."

"Great, following shiny lights in the sky. We're like fucking cats and a laser pointer."

"I don't think zombies turned those lights on," Coach’s tone swelled dangerously, standing behind his words.

“You sure? Maybe a zombie fell on the searchlight button,” Nick was quick to counter, always on top of the man’s nerves.

The elder decided to ignore him this time, instead heading down towards the blocked highway, turning to the motel.

“Whispering Oaks Motel” was one of those cheap places that promised luxury, just to give you men with beer guts and dirty pools in return. Weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete path and litter from cheap take-out meals was strewn across it. On the outside most walls were bound by old stone, cement holding it together – almost new compared to the rust everywhere else. Decorative lights seeped from the “Whispering Oaks Motel” board and hooked to an old eating area, radiating festive energy.

Buses waited in the heart of the parking lot – failed attempts at rescuing the motel’s guests. They checked the military vehicle, but it turned out to be empty – only the driver, dead, with his forehead hugging the steering wheel.

“Well _this_ evac went well…”

“Don’t lose hope people, there must be something in the amusement park.”

“Coach, what _exactly_ gave you the impression there’ll be a successful evac there? ‘Cause as far as I’ve seen, _every_ evac so far has failed. They’ve abandoned us.”

If someone would take the conman’s words with a grain of salt Coach was taking them with a whole bag of it. He was impenetrable, body rooted stoically towards the playful lights in the distance.

“Sometimes you just need to have faith Nick, ‘cause if you don’t, you’re as good as dead.”

“Faith makes you blind Coach.”

The time for lackadaisical, quiet and deferential diplomacy was over. The elder loomed over the younger man, his shoulders squared and face fuming. Nick didn’t budge, gaze biting back, their height difference unnoticeable with his inviolable aura: back straight, chin up, eyes present. The conman looked as if he’d eat the elder whole, the soft curve to his jaw now as hard as rock, fists bailed against his side.

Nick was far from any delinquent Coach had ever faced, the tension building from the man enough to knock the elder over. He glimpsed to the side, meeting a pair of unsure faces huddled closely together in mutual support. They were enough to sap any rage from him. He let out a tired breath, his whole body sagging; just like a mother dissociating from her child’s tantrum. There was no point putting the rest at risk.

“Let’s search the rooms.”

With that their small standoff was final, Coach keeping Rochelle by his side, leaving Ellis with a hot-headed Nick behind. With no clue on how to approach the man the mechanic just stared at the ground, tapping his metal toes against the pavement. A minute or two later Nick led the way.

External metal stairs lead to a second floor. A second row of doors greeted them, looking like the building inspector was either bribed to pass them or drunk on the job. Every single window was broken, the curtains hidden from sight. Zombies banged on doors in separate rooms, minds too overworked to stop and notice the gaping windows. From up there the cars in the lot wouldn't have been out of place in a wrecker's yard and funnily enough a garden flamingo merged perfectly with the crappy exterior.

“Yew know what Nick – fer once Aah’m puttin’ mah foot down,” Ellis barely went through with the joke, breaking into a fit of snorts in the middle of it.

The northerner only shook his head, his back turned, yet a quiet chuckle was prevalent in his voice.

Searching for supplies in the labyrinth-like halls sprouted some surprising finds – people had prepared pipe bombs and make shift weapons in their rooms; mostly forks held together to mops with the help of duct tape. Ellis took great interest in the bombs, examining them with attentive hands. Nick meanwhile hogged the bathroom mirror, smoothing his hair and adjusting his shirt in its reflection. He ducked under the faucet, soothing his parched throat with the pipe-smelling water. He rubbed the remaining liquid through his locks, slicking them back and returning back into the room.

Ellis was stretching on one of the beds like a sea star, showing off his perky pecs, nipples perturbing from beneath the yellow fabric. He flexed his biceps over his head, stretching the muscles tight in the small openings of his sleeves. He relaxed his hips, letting out a groan as his back popped.

Nick sat on the opposite bed, his weight forcing the old springs into a tired wheeze. With his back turned he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, just enough to slip the fabric off his shoulders and check the wound. He rubbed at the formed scabs, his injury all but healed by now.

Ellis couldn’t hold back, his eyes all over the revealed flesh, mapping the skin and muscle from his laying position. Unfortunately, Nick hid it without a second thought, getting up and kicking his shin with the buttons of his shirt still undone. Luscious fleece covered the expanse of his chest, some of the hairs protruding from the bounds of the fabric and curling around the rims. Ellis followed the black trail until it disappeared under the last open button.

“Get up.” It was more of a command than a request, the conman kicking his shin once more.

“Aah maaght need sum motivashun…,” the boy grinned at him, head lolling lazily to the side.

The edge of Nick’s lip pushed up, scrunching his eye, darkening the gray.

“Oh, do you?”

Ellis just hummed in response, keeping still; vulnerable and open. Nick leaned down, the opening of his shirt gaping further, revealing more of that rugged trail within. His arms sunk on either side of the southerner’s waist, trapping his body in a prison of attention. Hands slid on top of his hips, deft fingers untucking his shirt – freeing the way for warm hands. Ellis’ skin pulsed where they touched, sending hot waves of blood towards his face. A thumb grazed over his belly button, making his breath hitch. His hips weren’t a part of his body anymore, lifting up on their own, letting the yellow material bunch up under the ministrations. Nick’s hands stilled at his ribs, fingers moving instead, hiding their aggression behind their caress – tickling him. Needless to say, the mechanic was up and out of the room in a flash.

The group regrouped a few rooms down where the path cut off, nudging them through a destroyed room. The wall was in ruins – skeletal planks turned into splinters, buried under what was left of the isolation and dust. A woman had dragged herself through the room, leaving the rug soaked with blood. Most of it had dried off, but they could still hear squelching as they went over the patch.

"Lookit those poor people. All they wanted tah do was go fer a swim," Ellis observed from the other side of the window, his attention on the heap of burned flesh in the pool.

Nick whistled next to him, clicking his tongue.

“These people sucked at high-diving.”

“Bridge is out. We gotta cross the valley,” Coach warned them, enlightening the group’s path from his bird-eye view.

With the highway useless on this side too, their only option was the steep gully. Water had been eroding sharply into the soil, creating a giant crater in the process. That same river was now but an elongated pond, unmoving behind the trees.

A cough caught Ellis’ attention. Tall and dark, a figure danced between the shores, carrying itself on light feet. He detached his hunting rifle, peering through the scope, trying to get a better glimpse of the sick-stricken individual. His hat was gone with a wet slap, a flash of glistening rope gripping his chest and arms, forcing him to drop his weapon.

“Whoa- What the hell- Ah!”

Ellis smashed his face against the grass, body dismantled to his knees. He leaned back, planting his feet forward, tussling with the invisible fiend. Arms enveloped his middle, pulling just as fiercely, yet the appendage didn’t relent – it pulled back with the strength of a car, violent, but smooth.

“Ro! Shoot the tongue, shoot the-,” Nick’s screams left his ear, both of their bodies tumbling down the dirt.

Nick’s shoes slipped, flat soles scuffing against the soft rock, as the two men pummeled down the hill. Ellis squeezed his eyes shut preparing for the impact against a splintering tree, but was met with a mere thud instead. Nick grunted into his hair, his body absorbing the impact.

Wheezing from within his grasp startled the conman: the boy’s eyes bulged and his face became a dangerous shade of purple with each second left at the mercy of the creature. Adrenaline pushed him into action, yet logic held him back; if he let go, the acceleration would kill the boy. He probed his fingers against the appendage, but he couldn’t slip under, only hopelessly scratching his nails on the flesh.

The puff was of little warning, the men tumbling down like rotten barrels. Nick braked on the grass while Ellis’ body slid over his face, seized by momentum. The southerner’s body lulled to the side, motionless, struggling to breathe. Nick sat him up and removed as much of the tongue as he could, while also keeping an eye on their surroundings.

Ellis’ arms trembled as he removed the rest of the appendage. He put a hand on Nick’s thigh in effort to get up, just to crumble back down like a pile of leaves. He repeated the process multiple times, but it turned out fruitless, so he leaned back into Nick’s embrace. He was worked up, breaths coming out in needy gulps. The conman seized him by his shoulders, pulling him up.

“Come on champ, let’s get you on your feet, you’ll be ok.”

Ellis soaked the mellow tone, letting himself be lifted by the solid body. His legs still wobbled like spaghetti, but he tried standing straight on his own. The constant spasm of his legs proved this difficult and he had to keep holding on to the man’s forearm for support. Nick didn’t say anything, only watched as the rest of their team slid down the rocky terrain.

“Oh, honey! Are you ok?!” Rochelle stole him from Nick’s side, taking a thorough look at him herself.

“Aah’m okay now. Kint say the same fer Coach though – Coach yer breathin’ a lil’ hard, yew okay?”

The elder only waved, hand on his gut. "Damn, I am too old fo’ this shit."

Hearing that, the young southerner grinned up at the hill.

“Wanna go up and do that again?”

All Ellis was missing was a long red tail and some horns.

"You a crazy man, Ellis."

“Boy, quit playing,” Rochelle bashed his forearm with his hat and then propped it on the disarrayed curls.

Following what was left of the river lead the team to a dead end. The stream was clogged by mud and plants, forming a small pond. A car regarded them from its middle, probably washed away by the rain long ago. There were countless bodies everywhere, all survivors like them in search of the park’s sanctuary. Most of them were thrown in piles around the bottom of the hill.

“Guys,” Ellis turned towards his team, face serious “this here hill is up tah somethin’…”

It took a moment for the joke to sink in with the rest.

Coach waddled by with a confused look and Rochelle just sighed, shaking her head. Only Nick scratched his cheek, his tongue slipping out to mask the increasingly growing smile. He caught the southerner staring and was quick to lock his face.

“You’re an idiot.”

Not much could wipe Ellis’ grin at that moment.

After a strenuous climb, the mechanic was rewarded by the sight of decorative lights. The expanse of a parking lot stretched before him: a big chunk of it fenced, weeds peeking from between cracks in the pavement, forming a patchy rug. The morning sky brought with it muddled stratus, its colors as gloomy as the rest of the land. Infected roamed around their cars, some trying to get inside, others leaning heavily against them.

“Whisperin’ Oaks! We made it,” Ellis’ cheeky tone revealing his pride.

“Now just hope somebody’s still here,” Nick didn’t spare the dark truth.

A military vehicle conveniently lit their end destination – a tiny construction caravan mounted just beside the front gate of the park. With its windows boarded and steel door it served as enough defense for the crew to catch their breath.


	9. Fairgrounds

_Hell. Yes._

“Hey, check’it out, man – that’s the _Midnaaght Raaders_!”

“ _Every lady’s crazy when her daddy’s not around – duh-nah-nah-nah-nuh-uh-nah-nahhh!”_ Coach’s voice exploded into the small cabin, his foghorn-like tone piercing through the walls, prompting a woman to shove her arm through the bars. Wouldn’t he have been occupied rating Coach’s knowledge on the current topic, Ellis would have probably poked it.

“ _Every lady’s crazy_! Never been recorded, only played laaf. Yew know the _Raaders_ , Coach!”

“Hell yes! I got _all_ their albums. Even their new stuff that ain't no good. Best light show in the business, though.”

" _Midnight Riders_? Is this one of those old guy bands?" Rochelle commented, her face twisted into a grimace only a lonely teenager would have as their parents chat with an old friend on a busy sidewalk.

"You kiddin' me?! They were... were—nah, not really. They had one good song," Coach deflated, accepting the truth for what it was.

With the morning coming to its later stages, the air mellowed and Rochelle returned Nick his creased coat. He unrolled his blue cuffs and draped the clothing over his body, covering the curve of his broad shoulders and the strain those thick arms put on the sleeves of his shirt. It did, however, add to those same shoulders, the pads cutting into his figure, taking his tattered and stained form and turning it into a figure of power. Ellis watched, perturbed, lips forming a distinctive pout.

Coach had in the meantime peeled yet another chocolate and munched, satisfied grunts escaping his full lips. He peered through the barred opening, eyes settling, heavy and distant. His chews slowed, any flavor fading as barren barricades stared back. They represented everything this place shouldn’t have been – boring and damaged. It pulled at the strings of his heart, tugging them between distant melancholy and the ignorance of survival.

“Man, I loved this place as a kid,” it escaped barely as a murmur; if anyone would’ve moved, it might’ve never been audible in the first place.

The group had passed through the varied scenery of Savannah so fast the elder never had the time to take a step back, to take a look at what was left. Memories lied, yet even lies couldn’t conceal the assertive desolation he once called his home. He was selfish, longing for someone to say something, to give him all of whatever false hope they had stored for themselves. Yet, with no words of commiseration he shoveled the last of his snack, pushing the door open and heading out.  
  


Zombies dragged their feet against the dirty concrete, shuffling along peanut shells, candy wrappers and bottle tops, all while the bright _“Whispering Oaks”_ board highlighted their bleeding maws. A play of words once had now molded into their reality: with grounded rides and the music silenced, the fairground had turned into a graveyard, devoid of its usual joy. Wind brushed hot dog wrappers up against greasy smeared tent flaps and the ambient light pointed its finger at the faded signs and peeling paint. A once aggressive barrage of senses had transformed itself into nothing but echoes of laughter and flapping flags. The carnival glitz was peeled, leaving the bitter corpse of nostalgia catering to the park’s guests.

During their careful traverse, a familiarly unfamiliar sound took them aback – squeaking. Sharp and intruding the noise neared, spiking their defenses and reinforcing their guards. And for a good reason – erratic thumps accompanied the noise, like a mass rushing in the early hours of Black Friday, hoping to grab useless products they would never use. Zombies gargled and spat, whipping dust up into the air, semi-blinding the group as they gaped at the twister across the plain: a swarm of violently gyrating zombies, rotating around one another in an aggressive dance.

A clown led them: too skinny, he wore a striped shirt like he'd just broken out of some cartoon jail, his arms – flexible toothpicks. He was like a cake that had been sitting in the kitchen for too long; buttercream icing all cracked and matt. The only things right about him was the badly concealed bald cap and the over the top facial paint. Slobbering around he could barely keep his balance as zombies tugged and pulled at his sweat patched attire. He ran lightly, but bulkily – as if weights were shackled to his feet.

“Clowns?! Clowns. Oh, yew’ve got tah be kiddin’ me,” Ellis snapped, more bewildered than angry.

Coach cocked his shotgun, the spread blowing the clown’s torso and taking chunks off the zombies surrounding it. All infected following slowed to a confused stop, swatted at the air around the clown's corps, and then sprinted towards the survivors with renewed vigor. Being so spread, it proved difficult to collectively shoot them all. They had to act fast as the noises of their guns would attract more unwanted disturbances to the already growing list. In a moment of clarity Ellis detached the makeshift pipe bomb he’d dug from the motel, and lighting the fuse threw it hastily to the side. The beeping cut through the chaos, distracting the distraught humans and luring them to its flashing light.

It exploded; a burst hot in its center, the sparks piercing out and gutting half lucid bodies. Its impact spread outwards, peeling limbs from bodies close enough to its range. Such a powerful tool proved more than enough for the insignificant amount of intruders, yet as Ellis turned, a molten fire had spread near the ticket booth. It wasn’t enough to light the whole place on fire, only to hinder a few zombies running through it.

“Boys, will you get out of your asses for _one second_?! Look at this waste!” Coach barraged the two men, some of the fire invading his face, making his head fume with anger.

The familiar burn that usually came with embarrassment grappled the boy, forcing his stomach into a painful crimp. He avoided the elder’s accusatory tone, hiding behind the brim of his gloomy cap. He peered at his partner in crime, only to find him adjusting the buttons of his shirt nonchalantly, as if the elder had kept mum.

“Listen, y'all, we need to pull together as a team.” Coach continued, tone softening as he caught sight of Ellis’ guilt stricken posture. “Ellis, it’s okay, boy. I’m just tryin’ to tell ya’ll, not givin’ any warnings don’t help us in the long run. From now on we’ll focus on communication, we clear?”

The question’s rhetoric nature left little room for backlash and the group trudged forward through the open space of the fairgrounds.

In the middle of the park a large oak tree shadowed the ghostly shell of an overpopulated mass. Children had loved climbing the amputated stumps, unhooking the twinkling lights attached to the branches; causing chaos and trouble for the overworked staff. The stench of piss and dried up puke reverberated from the toilets, a heap of them visible in the corners of the white lace-patterned wall. _“Go Nuts Kids!”_ banners hung everywhere, a prelude to the _“Peanut Gallery”_ which invited them with its excited shine.

The light hid much of the bad state of the building: the insistent moss in the corners, the blotched ceiling and the cigarette buds littered all over its insides. An easily digestible point system was nailed next to the game: ten to twenty points for each peanut burglar, a 100 points if you managed to shoot the overly masculine Mustachio and a sour minus 100 points in the off chance you shot at the threateningly friendly peanut.

The mechanic took a stance in front of the game, face laughably serious considering the childish challenge he faced. He checked at his hunting rifle, pushing at the magazine and polishing the weapon’s wood with spit slicken fingers. For the first time Coach didn’t protest – perched atop the counter he observed, hunched over and less than alert.

Ellis pressed the red button and the music began.

The game itself was a piece of cake for the rifle wielder with nearly every fleeting cutout meeting a shattering fate. The cutouts were close enough for him to shoot two or three at a time, doubling his score in record time. Loud and upbeat, the music didn’t cease to bring in extra public; zombies raining over the fences and snatching with inherent disgust. The rest took quick care of them, letting him finish his duel.

Ellis kept going even after reaching the required minimum, accelerating and slowing with the tune of the music until an ear piercing series of dings beat from within the small price box. From the sidelines the picture presented could only be described as quite psychotic: grinning ear to ear the mechanic hopped over gutted corpses, grabbing the badly painted gnome and turning to Nick with bright eyes.

“’Ey, Nick, it’s our son.” With his feet buried in the yucky rubbish embracing that cheap gnome, the southerner looked almost… cute. His cheeks were puffy and full, laughter threatening to burst out from within his stitched lips.

“That’s not how this works Ellis… and don’t insult me. There’s no way I’d make something this fucking ugly.” Nick spat, offended by the outrageous insinuation, leaving a chortling Ellis to slither around him and plant the ornament onto an overgrown patch of weeds. It smiled back, cheeks rosy and fake; probably the liveliest thing for miles to come.

Countless food tents peopled the side of the gaming area, arranged like greasy dominoes. Once rich and plentiful, now turned into nothing but a pitiful trace of blooming businesses. Various patches soaked into the shiny fabric of crumpled flaps: the residue of lukewarm hot dog water and clumped cornmeal, smoked beef patties or overly sweet glazed donuts. Others conceived their secrets with passionate effort, the openings of the tents bolted securely to the uneven ground. The slimy sensation of mushy tomato slices and oily cheese accompanied the survivors’ steps as they browsed the attractions.

“Oh, popcorn! Popcorn! I _love_ popcorn! You, Coach?” Rochelle all but screamed, ecstatic by the sight of a filthy popcorn machine.

“I could go for some popcorn,” Nick agreed, licking the imaginary salty butter off his thin lips.

“Oh, kin we stop an’ make sum cotton candy? Aah’m serious.”

Ellis’ offhanded question triggered the elder into a heated preach, adding his expertise onto the topic of unhealthy treats: “Cotton candy, the wise pharaoh of food. Sittin’ atop of the food pyramid, passin’ judgement on all the lesser foods.”

“Amen,” Rochelle clasped her palms together, head downcast.

Memories of his dad bringing him and his mom here during the late summer months seized the southerner; when the sun took longer shifts to guard them and the park closed late. He’d always laugh at Ellis’ candy apple covered chin, bringing him to the packed bathrooms and trying to rub the sugar off his face. His hands would always end up sticky for the rest of the day, yet he didn’t seem to care, trailing his fingers through Ellis’ scalp and gifting the boy with his enervated smile.

Baked to golden and thoroughly satisfied the mechanic and his mom would race to finish any remaining popcorn, seated on the iconic green benches; his father on a hunt to fetch them crispy “Snocones” to soothe the effect of the weather. Ellis’ mouth always throbbed at the end of the day, blistered and flavorful. Cheeks red like hot coals, extensively caressed by the heated sun. His throat convulsing with each word, stinging for a week after. None of it mattered at the end of the day however, as his father lifted him up with coarse arms, letting him hang over his shoulders; mellow and asleep.

None of it was real anymore, however. It would never come back. Those moments of sweet ignorance were long lost, replaced by pooled guts and chunks of moldy hot dog buns. They clogged his chest, deeming him unable to form any emotion at all. Lifelessly he followed his team.

The driveway blocked their path with its steel gates, requiring the group to cut through the dusty warehouse. The entrance swallowed them at the front and squeezed them tight as it went on, like food passing through a whale’s belly. Ellis’ mind was still wrestling with the numb gap reverberating around his insides and he hardly winced as he passed through the reeking alley. Then, as he waddled down the littered ramp, he appeared to come to the surface.

“Oh, mah Gawd, guys, _Kiddie Land_! Aah wanna raad one! Jus’ one! Jus’ lemme raad _The Screaming Oak_ once. Man, when we ever gonna be here agin?!" He was practically panting with excitement, darting about in his delirious state.

“Now I wanna ride one,” Nick swayed with him, infatuated by the mechanic’s enthusiasm. White teeth shined through and eyes crinkled, stars skittish in the deep irises.

Colorful and bulky, all sorts of rides surrounded the group: a tea cup ride, a pony ride, a peanut rocket and countless of food stands to keep the spirits going. Twinkling lights hung off the thick trees, like fairies helping a butterfly keep its wings afloat. Everything melded into an atmosphere of silently building excitement, hushed, but present. It overwhelmed their attention, their inner child tugging at their sleeves through the open space. Nick’s decided to be a dick and halt him before a terrifying peanut.

“I do not like that little peanut man,” his voice lowered, brows pinching together tightly.

“I think I’ve had nightmares with this peanut,” Rochelle added, a step away from the northerner.

“That peanut’s got crazy eyes…They follow ya. I have _never_ liked that lil’ peanut,” Coach practically spat, going to side with his team.

Ellis only gaped at them, offended beyond comprehension. His head bobbed repeatedly between his team and the peanut, derived of any amusement. He came to stand in front of it, a meat shield to their disapproving stares.

“How kin yew not laak Lil’ Peanut?! Aah love this lil’ guy! Aah use’ta have his toys when Aah was jus’ baat saazd,” his face fought between desperation and pride, back pressing closer to his childhood idol.

“When you _were_ bite sized, huh?” Nick leered, a dangerous curve to his lips.

Any emotion drained through Ellis’ feet. His chest filled, the harvested air flaring his nostrils on its way out. Everyone snickered at him – even the passing zombies made a snarky remark with their dissociated jumble. Rochelle was by far the loudest, mouth unsure whether it should form sympathetic aw’s or let the true scale of the joke burst out. She decided on the latter, swallowing her pent up snickers to choke:  
“Well, he isn’t wrong, honey- “ And so she was gone, hands covering her stretched lips as her laughter penetrated through the peacefulness of the park.

The mechanic barely shook his head, fighting between taking satisfaction in Rochelle’s content or focusing on the toll the joke took on his confidence. The length of his legs hadn’t changed since his 17th birthday, though, he still watched them intently in the hope of a rapid burst of height. With nothing happening in the short span of a moment you could tell by his apathetic manner that he hadn’t much faith in his latest ploy. He only sighed, hips shaking as he led the way.

Nick almost felt bad. Almost.

The back alleys were a town of metal stairs and unstable ladders which the survivors climbed, steps mindful and gazes alert. On the roof little to no zombies swayed to the rhythm of arid and barely trembling ventilation pipes. The personnel only intended no man’s land shortcut them to a giant, multicolored slide. It had seen better days, as now it was just coated metal covered in under-the-soles mud and random leafs.

Nevertheless, Ellis turned to the elder like lightning, bottom lip jutting out. Coach acted blind at first, but as time passed and the boy’s lip turned blue, he decompressed, nodding in a sagely fashion. The mechanic bolted in impish glee, keeping his arms close to his body, as if afraid the elder would change his mind and wrench him back.

His butt dropped rather hard onto the metal, reverberating a loud thud throughout the air, making the rest wince in tandem. Ellis didn’t seem to find it a problem, letting gravity tug him down the freezing metal. It didn’t have much effect on his speed as he used what advantage he’d gained against the others to pat his backside, cleaning the filth he’d acquired. His attempts did little however, only serving to spread the muck further over his damp coveralls. Even so, he sprang with vivacious steps towards his group, having soaked the slide’s mysterious powers.

Nick raised his magnum at him and shot. He didn’t shoot _him_ , however – the open cavity of a Jockey a serving proof. Ellis stood, mouth agape.

“Nice kill, Nick,” Coach praised.

“Oh, so _now_ it’s nice.”

They all paused.

“…Nick, you scare me.” Rochelle subconsciously kept her rifle out, scanning Nick’s face for a trace of any joke. There wasn’t any.

Disconcertedness kept them silent, leading the group up metal steps and dropping them down an elevated ledge. Searching, they waddled around the fenced carousel, like duckies on an adventure with their gigantic, football mama duck. The fence was endless though, and high – no way they could haul one another to the other side.

Back at their starting point another peanut cut out stood frozen, midst an excited wave. It embraced a warning sign with its short arm, innocently judgmental.

“You gotta be this tall to get in here, Ellis. Sorry, buddy, you’ll be missed,” despite his words the conman’s tone held no regret or pity, quite the opposite actually – eyeing the minute male like a fox.

Ellis only eyeballed him dangerously, cheeks puffed, pressing his eyes into thin slits. “Yew keep up with the height jokes an’ Aah _won’t_.” He put pressure on the last word, huff coming from deep within his gut, accentuating it.

Having crossed a line, Nick sagged just enough to let out a short chuckle. “I’m just playing witcha, man.”

“Least there won’t be no Jockeys in there,” a shake of his head bordering on relief and worry accompanied Coach’s statement.

“Nope, just lots and lots of Tanks.”

“Nick, don’ say that!”

By the look the older man gave him you’d think Ellis was an escaped psychiatric patient. His face demanded further clarity, extinguishing the heat pared with the southerner’s sudden outburst.

“Yew never know…maaght happen. Never good tah say such thangs,” the more he explained the stupider his explanation sounded. He’d never thought of saying such things out loud, his old fashioned upbringing limiting it to his thoughts alone. Never put bad things into the world through the spoken word, don’t pull out white hairs, don’t crack your knuckles; all demands he’d never questioned, accepting them as scientific truth.

A haughty look of disdain was plastered onto Nick’s face as he let out a hard, aborted grunt. “As _if_.”

The almost womanly clack of his dress shoes resounded through the silence as he paced to the white panel. He put his hand on the lever decidedly.

“Everyone ready?”

Brief nods were exchanged and the music split the air.

Patience was the least thing they had as the fence gaped lazily. They didn’t even wait for the whole thing to open, the roar of infected and spike in hype spurring them to practically topple over one another. The group’s panicked sprint was accompanied by the relentless cacophony of the merry-go-round. Ears were strained – too focused on their surroundings rather than each other; throats tight and soundless. Then, Rochelle’s opened on full blast.

“Holy shit, holy shit, **_holy shit!_** ”

“ _Run!_ No, no, no, don’ run. Shoot!”

Each scrambled about not knowing whether to retreat to the sea of rotting flesh or face the hulking mass of pure rage that tore through the bushes. While Nick and Rochelle were pushed back towards the incoming zombies, Coach turned to stop the racket of the merry-go-round; all leaving Ellis to fend for himself.

Alone, his surroundings rapidly distorted: flashing bodies in front of his face, snatching that he pushed away, inhumane shrieks, barely human shouts, growling and prowling and just the pure ecstasy of _noise_. His world had turned into a sundae of colors, drowning him in the hectic cacophony. His body shook with adrenaline, hopping from his arms to his legs and then down to his toes and back. His brain short-circuited and he turned like a dysfunctional carousel.

His hands had found his grenade launcher without him noticing, shoving it in his chest. Stiff and disoriented, he shot at the Herculean build. It didn’t like that, pounding its heavy fists, beating any infected unfortunate enough to be beneath him to a sickening pulp. It let a furious roar and dashed towards the mechanic, a 400-pound train without any breaks. Ellis plunged to his coverall pockets, only to find them empty, terror tearing his stomach and leaving it gaping. He only had time to flex his abdomen before the creature’s fist made contact with his stomach, hurling him against the wall.

All air squeezed out of him like a squeaky toy. It left him weightless as he plunged towards the sturdy concrete, a dull pain resounding against his backside. Ellis’ ears rang to the point of pure agony, restricting his hearing and accentuating the throbbing in his neck. His vision swam with smudged patches and the world was spinning like an amusement park ride.

A figure teleported next to him.

Currently an easy prey he expected the worse as he could barely muster to keep his body intact. White and blue cut those alarming bells short. He felt himself being moved, his cheek tingling to the sensation of curled hair.

He spent the next couple of minutes leaning against its surface while things he didn’t fully understand enfolded around him. He didn’t have the energy to do anything.

“-is, El-… okay? …eart, an… me... hurt?” Focusing on the deep voice proved way too exhausting. His senses were way more interested in focusing on the drilling motions against his head. It felt like his brain was trying to exit his body through his skin, pulsing routinely at the base of his neck. He briefly mused on brain injuries; he’s a mechanic – such accidents were not unheard of. But then he wondered: was he a mechanic? His entire life before the crash was dim and far-off. He might as well have been born right there on the pavement with the weight next to him as support.

In a moment of jumbled clarity Ellis’ head straightened and he winked at the man shielding him like a hawk. He could only imagine what went through the man’s head at that moment. His brows twitched and his mouth hung open briefly, something akin to anger and utter bewilderment flashing like a whip-crack across his usually smooth features.

That moment of confidence was gone as quickly as it had come over the southerner. His stomach gurgled, sending him into a frown. A warning tried forcing its way up his throat, coming out as pitiful whines. He wanted to gag and heave his insides all over the ground.

“’m…sick…”, he barely managed, mouth fully glued. The other somehow heard him through the gunfire and panic, shattering from his visible conflict.

“Sick?! Shit- Ok, don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll bail your ass out of this mess.”

The mechanic hadn’t had a single worry as the ground beneath him disassembled with a gush of air. His head was leaned against a cushioned surface as Nick let out a demanding shout somewhere above him. Even if their chat was now a thing of the past, Ellis still nodded softly through a stiff neck, agreeing to the statement. Pain bounced loud and clear inside his skull and all he wanted to do was disappear. Which he did. 


	10. Coaster

The next time he came to he was welcomed by a warm caress against his forehead and a burning up his throat.

“You gonna vomit?”

As if on cue, the bile flooded his mouth rapidly and he was pushed to the side, broad hands rubbing his back. He continued heaving even after he’d emptied what little he had, his body forcing him into tear inducing gags. He’d only realized how hot his face had become when that same caress proved cooler than his own skin. The world around him spun, swiveling colors together and taking him with it.

“…ce in the air…”

A languid dripple of water and echoing steps accompanied the muddy voices.

“Nick, I was on the football team. Coach did just fine.”

“Damn, Coach. Sounds like you used to be on a diet of cheerleaders,” Rochelle’s voice rose, combating Nick’s snarky grunt.

Coach’s chuckles beat against the navy colored walls, humbled.

If one could have described Ellis’ state at that moment, it would have been boneless chicken: his arms were tied together in a sloppy knot over his torso, his legs hanging into the distance. His throat pulsed, as if soaked in lime, and his neck had caught rust, lulled to the side. The gentle rocking of his carrier’s walk soothed him into a deep, intrinsic relaxation.

Nick moved slowly, decisively. His tall build casting a shadow over Ellis’ body as they passed through the smudged, pink balls of fire. With his soft dark hair and the gloomy, but all the more seductive demeanor, he helped with the chunky juice within the mechanic’s skull, making it piece in a minute-long focus.

Besides his currently neutral expression, Nick had two others – forward and reverse. His forward expression was steady and destructive; driving like the advance of an eighteen wheeler truck. His reverse expression was solid – covering the logistics, holding back and reassembling a situation like a complicated Rubik’s cube.

Nick’s eyes twinkled, reflecting light and stealing his attention. The first couple of days he’d labeled them “gray”. If he was feeling particularly poetic, he called them “silver”. Neither of those descriptions did them justice: they were so solid, so bright; the exact lustrous color of a shard of polished metal. A ceiling of wild hair shielded them from the elements, like a bear skin rug warmed by their fire. It was never enough to distract him though, only serving as a mottled background. Those same eyes wrinkled when he smiled and almost hid the beautiful color within. Those same eyes which were now focused… on him…

Through his exhaustion tingles of heat stabbed Ellis’ face, caught like a child with its hand in the cookie jar. He stared, frozen and vulnerable to Nick’s barrage. The bigger man didn’t say anything, however, just regarded him with amused orbs and held him close.

“Nicky, how’s the boy holdin’?” Coach’s voice crackled like a can of whipped cream, perfectly timed.

“Well, Coach,” he mumbled, enthralled, “it seems like he’s hitching a free ride right now.”

Both leading members turned, faces lighting with hope.

Ellis, however, didn’t react, just stared, lethargic and distant as Nick continued forward. Stopping under the romantic bulbs it hit him a little too late that this might have been a bad idea. By the time he did Ellis was already squinting in discomfort, fighting arduously against the atmospheric light. The northerner had strapped the mechanic’s prized hat to his belt hoops after his liquid exchange in the safe room; parting him with any defense against the intruding light. Ellis let a soft noise of displeasure, turning around and burying his nose in Nick’s shoulder. The conman stepped to the side, removing the light from the boy’s oversensitive sight. Even so, Ellis didn’t react to the kind gesture, succumbing to his exhaustion.

They all shared a moment of idleness, unsure of whether they ought to retrieve back to relative safety and wait things out, or continue on, possibly finding a proper accommodation for their member in need. Deciding on the latter, the group quickened ever so slightly, minds sprinting along the tunnel.

The tunnel itself curled away coldly into its infinite rosy insides, the constellations on its walls serving only to further confuse the survivors. Waist high mist traveled lazily in circles, licking around their bodies. Cliché hearts and half naked cupids did their hardest to mask the ever-present dread conquering their surroundings. It housed the most degenerate low-lives – prisoners of their dog-eat-dog ethos. Caved in, the ceiling suggested the suspicious coughs of a Smoker, urging the survivors into a light jog. It died on its own not long after – a cough followed by an instant puff.

Twinkling decorations led them through a playground of back up swans and frozen machinery. Two of the birds faced each other, forming a half functional heart; a testimony to their love. Their beaks stood mere inches apart, the tragic absence of water forming a miserable end to their love story.

Climbing the jungle of metal, they came across yet another caved ceiling. This time, however, they stood on its reverse end, looking down. With the thick veil of darkness, the team had no way of knowing what lay within. They hesitated, looking between the pit and the unconscious body in Nick’s arms. They couldn’t just jump down while holding the boy. Separating would mean danger for the one below.

Coach rubbed his stubbed salt and pepper chin, his nose scrunching with a deep frown. No more than a few seconds later his leadership shined through.

“Okay, I’ll jump down. Ya’ll hold that boy steady and pass him down to me.” Choosing his own sacrifice, the elder dropped carefully following his assertion, shotgun on the ready. With no activity he waved at his group, triggering the chain reaction.

Nick and Rochelle slowly descended Ellis’ body, each hooking their arms around Ellis’ own, letting Coach hug him close. Tucking the mechanic’s legs on either side of his waist it was like the boy weighted nothing to him – a bright front pouch instead of the 23-year-old man he was.

The southerner remained lifeless during the whole procedure, crimping the elder’s heart further. He set his free hand on Ellis’ neck, gaining comfort from the boy’s warmth. Rochelle and Nick followed easily enough, concluding the end to a smooth operation. Nick didn’t waste time walking up to Coach, stance ready to take over once again.

“You want me to carry him for a little?” Coach was apprehensive, seeing the way the gambler strained to keep the boy steady in his arms. They were all tired and he couldn’t blame the man. He just wanted to help.

“No.” It wasn’t as sharp or aggressive as it was clean cut and abbreviated.

It announced: _I don’t need your help._

Coach regarded him with a contemplative eye, but remained silent as he passed the mechanic on, letting Nick adjust Ellis’ body against his own.

“Hm. Shit, first time ever I couldn’t wait to get outta the Tunnel of Love,” relief lurked in Coach’s tone.

“Can't wait for more sugar, huh, big guy?" Nick’s taunt lacked its usual bite. It projected a hollow indifference, strangely unpleasant to the ear.

Just as he’d said that a helicopter flew over them, its rotor blades indistinguishable though their speed. It disappeared behind the coaster, masked by its skeletal poles.

“There’s another chopper! They’re still searching,” the football coach all but bellowed, attracting an infected previously leaned against the tunnel’s walls.

A thousand things flew over Nick’s head at that moment: uncertainty and hope, yes, but also some strange sense of humiliation of knowing the elder had been right at the motel. Coach didn’t say, “See, Nick? A little faith don’t hurt.” There was no hint of triumph or self-congratulation in the calm old eyes. All he said was, “Let’s hurry and get our asses on that chopper.”

Following the metal bird faithfully, the remaining survivors climbed over the steel fence, its fallen form like the petals a withered flower. Nick made sure to be gentle, not wanting to jostle the mechanic any further.

The coaster’s cheap wood gave little confidence to the group in relation to sturdiness. It was probably safer to go back into the zombie infested tunnel than to run through its splintered tracks. They on the other hand climbed high before dropping precipitously into a hair-raising dive, followed by smaller hills of less impressive height. The structure continued on beyond the limits of their eyes, further complicating its serpentine shape.

The group halted a few steps away from the gate, waiting, hoping it would open on its own without too much fuss. Needless to say that didn’t work.

“So, run the coaster then?” The answer to Nick’s question was fairly obvious, but the rest bemused it, fueled by their own anxiety.

“Climbing it is out of the question. We have no other options if we want to catch that chopper in time.” Coach sighed heavily, shutting his lids. When he opened them determination burned on his pupils. “People, keep your shit tight.” With these last words he settled his heavy hand on the outworn lever.

Ellis moved.

An imaginary fortress, its walls thick and impenetrable, isolated the team from the outside world. The mechanic mumbled, half-lucid and in obvious pain. He was squirming in Nick’s grasp weighting further on his sore arms. He rubbed his forehead against Nick’s collarbone, the cool tone of the skyline putting him in great distress.

Nick lowered into a well-balanced squat, thighs hardening, digging into his inner suit pocket. Fishing around its contents, consisting of an over the top Rolex and a heavy necklace, he forwarded a pair of aviator shaped sunglasses. It was a miracle they’d survived this far. He treaded them through Ellis’ locks, careful not to poke their tails in his eyeballs. They looked quite small on the southerner, his square-shaped face surprisingly larger than Nick’s own. His insistent squirming subsided once the shadowy protection covered his sight and he relaxed yet again, going motionless.

With the resonances of concern pulsing through the living balance of the group, Coach fully committed to pulling the lever and an ear piercing screech drowned the vicinity in chaos.

Click click click. Nick’s heartbeat quickened. Click click click. The roller coaster screeched on the tracks. Click click click. Coach’s encouragement bellowed through the cacophony.

Too busy keeping his feet moving, Nick paid little attention to the words leaving the elder’s mouth. Infected climbed from every direction, crossing his path. They growled and swatted, only to be knocked back by Rochelle’s rifle. She acted as his best friend at that moment, fast on her feet and flush against his side.

He knew it was more than he could swallow and he knew it wouldn’t have done any good, yet he peered at the southerner tugging his arms.

Wasn’t it for the overbearing nature of the situation Nick would have laughed at how hilarious his glasses looked on the boy. Being this close, the dark plastic couldn’t conceal his closed lids, which would flutter ever so slightly from Nick’s jog. All life had been drained from his full face, in an abrupt and disturbing way, instead of the mellow way exhaustion brought with itself. His skin was pale, or so Nick was imagining it, used to it being rosy from exertion and sticky with sweat and grime. It unnerved him.

“Guess you’re on a ride, huh, champ?” His breath came in strenuous pants, barely audible through his tight core. He hoped the banter would spike some sudden reaction, magically healing the stupid hick. The result proved too realistic, too ineffective, wiping any hope he’d nurtured so far.

He straightened his head, ignoring the sudden ache. “I hate roller coasters.”

The survivors followed the coaster’s tight banked turns, going down with the sharp descend. Nick held the boy’s body close as he slid down the chipped wood with surprisingly no damage to either of their ankles. The cart continued to drag itself with visible effort, disappearing from sight. For a brief moment the thought of it doing a loop struck the northerner, but judging by its age it was highly unlikely.

The infected sped up, clawing and ripping at the wooden structure, shaking it. His group scalded the rise of the coaster, or so he’d thought – Rochelle lagged at the back, trouble surrounding her. She’d strayed from their loose pact, ganged by a group of zombies. Her attempts at shooting gained her little freedom, only fueling more zombies to float over to her, unhindered by the coaster’s awkward build. They clawed at her flesh and bruised her arms, pushing her around like school bullies.

Halfway up Coach whipped around, as if smelling her distress. He hurried down the slide, firing his shotgun repeatedly on the go. Nick propped the mechanic against the wooden beams, just in time for a Jockey to shoot from the increasing mass, latching onto the elder. Coach released a series of screams, alarming more of the undead. The gambler cursed, forced to detour. He lunged towards him, magnum out, butt poised to deliver a fatal blow. Centimeters away saliva slapped in his face. It shot in his eyes, forcing him into a rapid blink as he was pulled back.

A Smoker’s tongue had slipped around his throat, immobilizing him in the most brutal of ways. Instinct drove him to jam his hands against the appendage, but his effort only served to suck his fingers tight against his own flesh. Power equal to that of race horses tugged against his windpipe, threatening to crush it. Choked gasps left his vocal cords involuntarily, fighting for air. The producer somehow saw him, her movements rapidly increasing, panic turning her face to ash. Nick’s legs flailed against the boards, upper body swatting uselessly side to side as his vision decreased. Rochelle’s distant screeches and Coach’s continuously disappearing form were his only solace as the infected strangled him to death.

He might die on a hillbilly roller coaster, but he wouldn’t die alone.

Or at all.

The pressure snapped without warning and he slid down, knees kicking into his chest. Up, the Smoker let a guttural scream, teeth digging into what remained of his tongue. Ellis had rolled on top of it, body pressing the creature down. It gave the team enough time to regroup, each opening fire, the rush enough to disintegrate the zombies’ flesh into miserable puddles.

Nick was up first, upper back already straining to take Ellis’ weight. Coach, however, was quick to snatch the boy from his grasp, having learned the man’s stubborn ways. A nerve pulled tight against the northerner’s temple, but he said nothing, his shaking arms winning the majority in this case. He halted, kicking the Smoker’s weakened body, taking satisfaction in the way it rolled.

“No more dick for you, bitch.”

The group moved faster then, some unconscious humane part of the zombies pulling them to the sides, avoiding being hit by the ex-player’s large physique. As much as Nick wanted to deny it, his stubbornness to let the boy go had costed them more time getting there. Time they could have used caring for said boy. His nose scrunched, temporary embarrassment turning into self-loathing.

With most infected drained at the foot of the ramp, the team’s way forward was mostly clear. Whatever zombies hindered them, the producer gunned down, her despair transforming into anger through the fire of her weapon. She put fear in most, bodies succumbing to her bullets.

They sped up the ramp, an orange arrow pointing the direction to safety. They reached the designated safe room, but their gauntlet was far from over.

Bypassing the safety of the attraction’s queue booth, they opted for capturing the comfort the _Dixieland Diner_ offered instead. Nick used whatever sense he had left to barrel the safe room door behind them, clogging the mutated humans into a screeching pile. He stormed out, releasing a burst of fire against the lock located at the base of the steel shutter doors.

He grasped at the horizontal shaft provided in the drum and pulled it, opening the shutters.


	11. The Diner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal thoughts.

The group worked with the speed of desperation, hands full and hearts fuller. Coach set the boy down, overcome by the alarming bells the entrance awakened in his brain; the thin shutters wouldn’t withstand even the weakest of attacks. He lumbered across the diner, a plan already in the making. It materialized as scattered sketches, each lightning fast, flipping one after another into a blurry mess—a fortified wall, built heavy and impenetrable. Not much could be moved though, the monotone variety of the interior stuck to the floor tiles. A closer look confirmed a roll of tables shying in the shadows at the very back. He aimed for them.

Nick stuttered inside, last to cross the threshold of safety. He let the shutters crash at his feet, eyes inevitably halting on Ellis’ unconscious form. He grinded his teeth continuously at the sight, but before he managed to chip any of them Coach waved him over from the very end of the diner. He was perched opposite of a circular table. The two men heaved the family sized furniture, making quick work of clogging the entrance, creating a chaotic lock of polished chairs and four-legged tables. They turned into a mass of grunting flesh, body language the only thing to direct them through their adrenaline filled escapade.

Rochelle approached from a safe distance, unwilling to be caught in the tornado of careless men. Her attention was largely focused on the mechanic—leaned against the wall, legs half folded and body limp. His locks moved softly, tickled by the passing channel of wind. She crouched next to him, throwing his left arm awkwardly to rest across her thin shoulders, and tensing her body, lifted, her back reflexively soaking the movement. Gravity pulled Ellis’ death weight back down, taking the edges of her t-shirt with him. She groped and pulled time and time again, until she could stand confidently with him by her side.

Now the hard part.

Maneuvering to his front she leaned forward, pulling his arms to hang in the air. Crouching, she could already taste the failure in his increasing weight, balling the material of his coveralls into tight fists. Her thighs filled the elastic fabric of her jeans and taking a sudden breath, she rose.

For a moment she celebrated her small win, a victorious smile lifting at the corners of her dry lips. Yet, after a wobbly step she stumbled forward with a yelp, taking her companion down with her. Her knees hit the floor hard, sending pulses through her femur. She held tightly onto the mechanic as his body leaned threateningly to the side.

Nick’s head turned owlishly, taking sudden notice of the procedure unfolding a mere foot away. He stepped towards her with open arms, eyebrows forming a distrustful bridge. It prompted a rapid fire of ‘I got this!” to fly out of her mouth as she scrambled back to her feet. His eyes never left her and she managed to keep herself standing though the pure power of stubbornness. The scene would’ve been deemed quite comedic had it been shown on one of the late night shows: a 5’1 woman, round-backed under the weight of a fully grown 23-year-old, swaying left and right as two grown men arranged furniture uninterested, blurred like the characters from a _Bugs Bunny_ cartoon. She almost laughed herself.

The next agonizing moments were spent with her flickering and dipping like a flame on a windy porch, feet shimmying in small uneven steps towards the nearby booth. Her vision tunneled and her head tripled in size, pushing the furniture an immeasurable distance away. As heated sweat punctured through her pores she wondered—why was she even trying? She could have done something way easier, like arm wrestle a Tank or beat Coach in a tug of war. A pathetic whine reverberated inside her throat and she hurried her steps in vexation.  
  
In front of the booth, she settled Ellis on the leather cushioning; settled being a generous term—it was more her awkwardly lowering to her knees, trying to shuck Ellis’ body off as gently as her trembling muscles would allow it. It resulted in Ellis rag dolling onto the thick leather surface, legs settling in an imaginable angle. Still panting, she shimmied between the seat and pulled at his torso. Her lack of upper body strength allowed her very little, but in the end she managed to arrange his body to lay fully onto the makeshift bed.

She plopped opposite of him thoroughly out of breath. Her limbs weighted like a bag of stones, but the blood inside them surged in a prickling pace. Even with his body out of sight, the soft pulsing in her stomach didn’t relent. She could barely believe the sloppy goo Nick brought into the safe room, derived of all its vitality. She tried her best to look forward during their walk in the tunnel, but her eye would always stray back to the boy—as if he was all fine and well, calling her name.

Her life had been robbed, her protective skin pulled, leaving her with the truth of their manifold misery. There were no more enthusiastic smiles or chaotic stories; her brother, the only thing shining brighter than the apocalypse blended with their surroundings. Somewhere along the way her despair had molded her sorrow into a lust for revenge. She got up front and mauled every infected between Ellis and that safe room door and if she could have him back the way he was; she was ready to kill every zombie in the godforsaken country. Yet now that same sorrow had returned, growing tenfold.

Nick’s approaching body pulled her from her thoughts. His face had contorted heavily, undergoing various nuances of emotion, like a lightbulb in need of a change. She’d taken his continuous silence as ignorance, but it had obviously been far from it—he was hurting just as much as anyone else.

Coach trotted over after him, spent, settling a heavy hand on Rochelle’s braided curls. “Give him some time. He’ll be alright.” His voice carried confidence, but his face revealed worry and doubt—he wanted to stay strong for his group, yet his composure was crumbling. He had lost his focus, his indestructible drive—the clearness he held throughout their journey, keeping their eyes on the goal. She had seen him wander off during their walk through the park and hadn’t thought much of it—they were all robbed by the scenery around them. It was within the tunnel, with the way he held that boy that she really came to realize how much this journey affected him: his only goal, to protect and guide his team, had failed.

She—they—groped at his bold character with desperate hands, ignoring his own need of solace and support. It was greedy, yet Coach was generous too; feeding off knowing he could mean something to maybe the last people he would ever come see. Even so, she couldn’t give him all the fault, when in fact the apocalypse made them all greedy. Greedy with the desire of holding on to their old characters and pretend things were normal. Greedy with the thirst for that blissful ignorance, unreachable in their current circumstances. It had been easy to humor it on their way to the Savannah mall, as the city hadn’t been stripped of its humanity yet. They drowned in it, pushing all sense of reality, of thought, to the side. It fed their delusions that they could keep on being themselves, as no one wanted to dig—too worked up and stuffed with a buffet of survival instincts. Yet, they were pushed toward change. Somehow they ventured off their path, in the moments of silence or exhaustion, and all seemed to work things inside themselves. At least, that’s how she felt.

She abandoned the perception of serenity, peace and apathy and indulged her desire for action. She undressed her weakness, putting it through this trial. She wasn’t going to let this chance slide—she was put here to fight, to step in front of her teammates and take the lead. It wasn’t the sense of leadership she grabbed at, however, but the sense of _presence._ She was no longer a background, scared and indulged in protection—she accepted her equality of strength and carried it proudly.

Mama always told her not to play with fire, which held her back from burning herself.

Yet, now she wasn’t the burned one—Ellis laid a mere foot away, incinerated. It was like a screw in their machinery was missing, turning the rest into useless parts just there to gain rust and cobwebs. They held each other with rubber bands and neither had the courage to admit that a short redneck in his 20s had already bound them in an inseparable bond. He taught them lessons they regarded impossible and provided simplicity where a rambunctious labyrinth reigned. He denied hoarding his well-being from day one, choosing to protect them instead. They took it for it for granted, shrugging it off as coincidence or just plain stupidity, yet that was far from it—the mechanic deliberately looked out for them with everything he had.

Her emotions spiraled like fireworks and she stood on shaky legs, sitting on the edge of the mechanic’s seat, hand reaching out to glide across his turbulent curls. The more she looked the harder her heart pounded and the more caustic her blood became. It almost brought her to tears to see him so pale and quiet. “Oh, Ellis, what did you go and do…?” Coach didn’t comfort her this time and each survivor dispersed to play hide-and-seek in a corner.

The air inside the diner was laden with the smell of hot, greasy pancakes and overcooked burgers. Dust cloaked the tables and was thoroughly sponged into the seats. It had been a casual atmosphere once: a combination of colorful booths served by a lively waitstaff and a long sit-down counter with close and personal service. Now it was dark and ugly, far from the happy place for a family to re-energize.

Nick observed from his spot on that same counter at the way Coach had lumbered, plopping unceremoniously into a blue and white zebra booth. The elder had then proceeded to rub his right knee as painful groans pushed through his pursed lips. A moment long observation confirmed the conman’s fears—Coach had a bad knee. A deep sense of regret followed—he didn’t want to be stuck nursing a crippled man. Somewhere along his train of thought regret took an unexpected turn toward worry and before he knew it, he had already made his way to the seat opposite of the elder. Coach acknowledged him with a nod, which Nick returned. Cloaked in an indescribable atmosphere neither spoke for a while, both unsure of how to break the silence.

“You… okay, big guy?” The question came out so unexpectedly that Nick had to search for its end in the middle of it. Coach hadn’t noticed anything of his inner struggle or just didn’t bother to acknowledge it, grunting dismissively with a swat of his hand.

“Coach is fine—just my knee actin’ up again,” the short answer meant to put a brief end to the conversation. It only proved to enhance the conman’s interest further; or maybe he needed something to dilute the sorrowful silence.

“Must have been a pretty big fall,” his statement hid an indirect question, meant to spur a more lavish response. Coach took a deep breath, preparing himself for a monologue he must have given many times before.

“An accident. Back in my days, I played football. A lot of it. So much in fact I won a scholarship for it!” The exclamation held less pride than it should have. “In 1984 I accounted for 5,123 yards of offense—a record number people use’tah say. It was printed on all local newspapers, hell, I even got on TV once!” What little smile he adorned was wiped out coming next sentence. “With the roll of the seventh game of the 1985 season my career essentially ended. We played in the rain and our vision was limited. An opposite player must have slipped on the grass, ‘cause next thing I knew my knee was bendin’ in a direction knees aren’t supposed to bend. The pain was just,” the elder took a shaky breath. He closed his eyes synonymously, falling silent. It made his companion cringe. 

After a minute he finished his story hastily. “Suffered tears of the ACL and MCL. Nothin’ was the same after that. Tried comin’ back—a variety of different teams; didn’t work. Pulled whatever references I could together and landed a job as a coach at a high school to provide for my family.”

While the elder expected the usual ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ or a pitying gaze, he was caught out of guard by Nick muttering: “Guess you went full circle then.”

None of his well-rehearsed responses applied to the comment, so the elder just shrugged, chuckling. “Guess so.”

Minutes passed with them basking in each other’s presence. Coach’s face gradually shifted towards odd serenity and he rubbed his salt and pepper stubble, leaning heavily back. He was full of thoughts and keeping them to himself suited him no longer. “Last time I saw my grandmother, she asked me was I still a prayin’ man. I told her, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Well,’ she says, ‘pray harder. ‘Cause it ain’t workin’.’” He huffed, almost amused. “I ain’t gonna die waitin’ on salvation. ‘Long as we still got guns, we gonna _fight_.”

He fixed Nick with a decisive look. “And if we run outta bullets, baby, they gonna wish we haven’t.”

Nick was trying to figure out the point to the elder’s prophetic monologue, but he didn’t need to. “I think we misunderstood each other back at the motel. I’m not askin’ you to devote yourself to prayer, son—I just want us all to have at least some hope; something to keep us fightin’ through this shit.” He nodded his head towards the producer who hadn’t left Ellis’ side, voice lowering. “We all want to find our families and keep sane at the same time, Nick, I’m just used to encouragin’…”

“Through an entity in the sky.”

Coach nodded. “Through an entity in the sky.”

The sceptic hummed, mimicking the bigger man’s posture. He added to it by crossing his arms and slowly ticking his shoe against the table’s leg. It wasn’t long before Coach opened up again. “I saw my family off on a chopper not much different than the one we’re followin’. A wife and two beautiful daughters,” stating such a simple fact had a grant effect on his tight breathing. “And your family, Nick? They safe?”

It was meant with good nature—a way to let the gambler let go of some luggage—yet bared fruit to an emotionless retort. “Died in a car crash in my 20’s.”

The casual simplicity with which the phrase was announced left the coach in shackles. There was no emotion present in the short statement, traumatized or otherwise. A pregnant pause stretched between the men and when he spoke next the elder’s tone came from the depths of his gut. “I’m sorry to hear that, Nick.”

Nick’s, however, hadn’t changed a bit. “Don’t be. They’re better dead.”

While Coach disapprovingly followed Nick’s disappearing form slide into a far corner, Nick browsed through memories from years ago.

Kicked on the streets of a nameless city by a father he never got to know at the fresh age of fifteen. It didn’t take long for the wanderers to find him—a bunch of thick-headed ne'er-do-wells, real-life low-down dregs, the human sludge left in the bottom of the barrel when the good stuff has all been used up. They beat him into a bloody pulp for the two crumpled dollars he carried in his pocket, muttering exasperatedly after having used his stomach as a soccer ball. The first couple of cold January nights he spent in an abandoned warehouse—a rat infested area, where dirt crawled on you in your sleep, slithering its way inside your ears and between your toes. He’d been too scared to move elsewhere, hiding like the shadows of the rats that nibbled at his shoes. He’d only gone out to urinate in the nearby park when holding it in proved excruciating.

Few people stayed there with him—a constantly changing patrol of stray junkies, cussing God and seizing on the floor, and a homeless “couple”: two men panting at each other, lacking humility and warmth.

He had tried coming back—he still had his key on him. Two days later; busted from his face to his toes, his stomach nauseatingly empty and the insides of his mouth painfully cracked. He’d taken a deep breath, going through the process of opening the door in his mind: pull the key out, throw a quick look at its familiar design, push it in, twist to the right and step inside. He’d done it hundreds of times, yet now it made beads of sweat slide down his forehead.

He’d underwent each step: pull the key out, throw a quick look at its familiar design, push it in… it didn’t fit. The key wouldn’t go in. Did he chip it? His eyeballs had carved in it like lasers, flipping it between his fingers. Impossible—he’d made sure to keep it safe, nurturing it between the folds of his garments. Was it dirty? He’d brushed it against his zipped hoodie over and over, until his hands couldn’t go any further and his eyes felt like they’d shoot out of his skull. He’d tried it again. And again. And again with more pressure. And again a little softer. _It just wouldn’t fit._

He couldn’t believe it—that wasn’t the _deal._ They _had_ to keep him. He’d learned his lesson—what more could they ask?!

He jumped their fence like thousands of times before—the back door. They weren’t that thorough—never if it was about him.

No.

No, no, no, _no_.

Locked. It was all locked. It wouldn’t fit. That was it? No, _that was it_. They had made themselves clear. No amount of foot stomping or hair pulling, or sincere pleading could change his outcome. This was his fault. He did this. He fucked up. Somewhere along his miserable existence he’d stepped on the wrong foot and made an enemy with God.

It shouldn’t surprise people then, which path he chose to follow.

Once you embark on a life of crime it gets easier all the time. Making a start is the only hard bit. And he pulled it off. He’d pried the city like a rotten-out hollow log, revealing the blind, white, crawly things slithering out from underneath. He’d become one of those same scurrying creatures, three years of constant survival; getting his ass beat again and again and doing the sickest of shit for a group of people who tattooed three dots on his left wrist. He was marked and conditioned into an existence of crime and despair.

And then in some cliché joke of life, the number eighteen marked a new beginning for him. Or a continuation of it. After mopping some store clergy’s blood off the street he needed ten bucks for cigarettes. Before he knew it he’d replaced them with gambling.

Losing his first 200 had left him startled, or it should have as it only arose something in him. Something ugly and desperate that would leech off his bone marrow, forcing him to visit it every so often; think of the what-if’s and could-have’s. It had begun like a sugar cube in warm water—long way before the sticky syrup he’d lose himself into. He’d scattered across it, like some weightless water bug on the surface tension of life. Until he hit his twenties and plunged deeply below its surface, where there was no oxygen. Where he drowned.

Yet one instance will always surface. It was like an alcoholic remembering his first bottle, even if it wasn’t the first time he’d drunk. Like that perfect high for a junkie after countless overdoses. A night of which he remembered the layout so well, that encapsulated the elevation which lifted him on a pink cloud above the misery.

Dealer draws a 6.

Hand 1: 11

Hand 2: AA

Hand 3: 66

Hand 4: 88

Double down on the 11—a beautiful 10.

Split those aces: solid 8 and 9.

Split those sixes: draw a 5. Double down—another 10. Draw a 4 on the second card. Decent 8.

Split those 8’s for an ace and a 10.

Dealer shows a 10 and then busts with a 6.

Dealer pays him a bunch of white chips. Nick asks him to 'color him up'. The dealer calls over a pit boss to supervise. Hands him back $28,000 in a combination of big blue chips and $1k chips and whatever leftover change. Nick tosses him a $100 tip.

He heads over to the bar and orders himself the most expensive scotch on the menu. He’s told he’d accumulated more than enough loyalty points to get the drink for free.

There he is, on top of the world. All his problems solved. It made him think he could rebuild relationships that have destroyed him by winning money, and make amends to his soul by flashing his 'winnings'. That bar had become an obsessive nest to his Narnia world.

Life was no longer a miserable nightmare. It was now a dream.

He’d swallowed the last of his drink.

He could hit the tables again.

He sits down at the blackjack table and a pit boss approaches him. His teeth are so, so white and polished—Nick could almost see himself reflecting back.

"Sir, perhaps you would feel more comfortable in our VIP area," he says. Nick follows him to an office where he jots down his information and gives him an access card. At the entrance, his lungs fill with putrid smoke as he absorbs the scenery: free food, unlimited drinks, plush chairs and gentle lighting. It’s magical. This is where he belonged.

And what’s that—the table limits are much higher. He recalls his $28,000. He had the money. _He could become the king._

He tries his luck with some blackjack, but his luck had checked out an hour ago. Dealer keeps on pulling 21’s versus his 20’s; 19’s versus his 18’s. On more than one occasion he asks the dealer to change his $5k chip for smaller chips, until he has nothing left. Nada. Zero. There is no more food, no more drinks. _“You are a failure.”_ his mind spins, _“You need to leave.”_

He repeats that same process over and over in the coming years. He wins a little, but then loses again, so he reaches into his checking account, then his savings. Now his apartment is fucked. Now he drinks more. Now he’s running to a different city. Now he’s in a prison pod with sixty men he never thought he’d know.

It wasn’t the win. If he was really interested in winning, he'd have a spreadsheet. Like how businesses keep track of their expenditures and losses. He’d see how stupid he was, he’d see all the minuses and red marks.

No, it was about the _game_. The chance involved made it exciting because every loss made him that much more confident that the big win he’s been waiting for is "due" to him and it'll come with the next hand or the next roll. It was about the sense of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat with his last penny. It was about that fleeting comfort, acceptance; he had crawled there in the worst times of his life. He has had a place to run and hide; drown his sorrows until he had no money left and wanted to die on his way home, knowing what he’d just done.

The feeling of missing _the one_ tore him inside in his sleep. He was either dreaming or having nightmares about it. If he wasn’t gambling, he was looking out to it, studying odds and forms, actively seeking money or trying to avoid the consequences of his actions.

Yet, he still craved that solitude of doing something by himself that was destroying him every time. Coping with something that was the source of it all. He’s there day after day—chasing after a feeling he could never replicate. He knows this, he’s chewed it in his head over and over, but he can’t stop. It’s completely and utterly exhausting to keep fighting the urges. He’s given himself up. He’s _its’—_ the addiction has claimed even what little he had. He couldn’t keep poking the rat—it ate the last of his sharp stick and now it was coming for him harder than ever.

Even so, tiny squeaks would lie to him, changing their frequency every so often: it was only a gambling addiction if he kept losing, otherwise it was a high-paying career, right?

The headache from hell grabbed his eyes sockets and the base of his skull and twisted, hard. It always came to visit him in his quiet moments, when he tried so hard to avoid it. His eyeballs were swollen from the pressure his thoughts were pushing on him. And they stung—dry and red from the lack of sleep. He’d crammed his body in any way possible in the span of an hour. While his body was relaxed his mind would race and if he managed to tame it, his body would take a turn at twisting the nerves of his back in unfathomable ways, until he couldn’t take it anymore and turned; just to repeat the process all over again. He had kicked his shoes off and shucked his coat on the table. Then, he was too cold, and then too hot. Then, he needed to stretch, now he was at the back taking a piss in a shit stained toilet.

And now he was back at his corner, legs drawn into a pyramid over the length of the booth and gaze peeking through a gap in the shutters. The vastness of the October night had descended upon them without notice, taking advantage of the survivors’ unsuspecting summer clock. The moon had hidden itself, exhausted after the day’s ordeal. If he concentrated, Nick could still hear the remnants of the rollercoaster’s alarm reverberating behind the queue booth. He hoped the alarm would keep the infected there, away from them, or would at least be strong enough to pop their drums out.

The way they spat and crawled reminded Nick of sick, rabies infested animals—humans stripped down to their basic instincts, just a carcass of what they used to be. But then there were also… mutations: disgusting masses with unimaginable strength, able to produce 18-foot-long appendages or mount on your back like monkeys. They weren’t smarter in any way, and thank God for that, but their enhancements alone kicked the survivors into a tornado of last-minute strategies. They’d encountered only five so far: a Charger, Jockey, Boomer, Smoker and… Tank. The last was the scariest. And, Jesus, he was huge. And God knew if he didn’t have variations too. God and CEDA.

The conman had started hating them more and more now with how often they’ve abandoned their poor citizens. They kept a neat facade with half-functional evacuations and trailer queues, yet in reality they did nothing to prevent what could have been easily prevented. CEDA never told them how fast the Infection was spreading and how bad the situation was due to the mass panic and civil unrest it would have provoked. Where are the civilians now, though? Half-slobbering and delusional, hunting one another for sport; far away from the perfect ending they hoped for either.

Once the sickness appeared to overwhelm them they put their hands up, letting the military take over. And the dumb fucks took over indeed—adding guns where guns shouldn’t have been involved in the first place. Now thriving on fear as the Infection spread out of control, the people turned to their guns: rioting on the streets against the local cops, causing chaos in cities around the nation, mass buying and looting stores, armoring their doors and re-purposing their basements.

Yet again with no one to turn to CEDA hired a private security firm to aid the law enforcement and maintain control. This only served to throw water in the heated oil, causing a massive explosion—people had pushed harder, killing the cops with brute strength or infecting them with the Flu. CEDA had ripped the hair out of their scalps in thick, canopy chunks giving in to the panic themselves. They’ve left the same people they were obliged to protect on fisher-man’s luck—hoping most will survive and neglecting the damaged, and now, they paid for it. Under the rage of the citizens they created a new plan, however—a last attempt at rescuing as many people as possible and bringing them somewhere safe.

Spending his nights on a casino boat—cheating simple rednecks out of their paychecks—Nick hadn’t been too bothered. He could count his solutions flipping between his fingers; connections and money were all a person needed in life. And he had them all: from cheap shot conmen to organized gang bosses, he could come up with anything and expect it to get done for him. He’d earned his respect by licking dirt off the streets and he wasn’t going to let all his hard work go to waste just because of shyness. He’d make them kick the last mother and child off that damn helicopter if he needed to.

Yet, as he had stepped off the wavy platform of the boat and seen the flock of helicopters buzzing towards the nearest hotel—he had decided to follow the crowd. And what a crowd it was: a picture perfect redneck, a fatty in a sweaty polo and a chick with a petit figure. They had all entered a minute too late and as they traveled up that elevator ready to run the sprint of their life, the conman had wondered if he would be able to survive come the opportunity—could he make a functional coalition with such a pathetic group of simpletons? The yapping redneck could probably shoot, but were the rest capable as well? With every encounter they had won, they’d also won a chunk of his confidence, until they’ve proven irreplaceable.

Meanwhile the pain in his skull had slowly been increasing, snapping him from his thoughts yet again like a rubber band. He dug his fingers into his neck and shoulders, roughly massaging the muscles there, hoping to at least mute the painful searing. It did little as his main culprit was his starved brain—hunting for chemicals by tearing his insides. The pain was so intense he had to close his eyes and breathe through his mouth; his whole body on fire, as if he’d just been running a marathon. It pissed him off he had to deal with this now of all times. Why couldn’t it have been before this goddamn apocalypse? Or after—when he could search for a psychologist or therapist, or whatever the fuck he needed to search for.

He almost laughed at himself. He wouldn’t do that even if he had the chance. He’d choose the easy path, the habits; back to the tables where he belonged. He could have easily done that by now, but it meant changing. And he hated change. He’d lived through the relentless squeezing of change as it had molded him for years, and now he wanted nothing to do with it. He was more stubborn than ever, refusing to let anything ruin his good time. To suppress his freedom.

Yet now his leg ticked uncontrollably under the table, the only possible outlet for the pain this freedom brought with it. He arranged and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers over and over again until he ultimately knocked them off the table and stood up. He walked to the bathroom in brisk yet sloppy steps and leaned heavily onto the round edges of the porcelain sink. He turned the handles, not hiding the ferocity behind his movements, setting freedom to an aggressive stream. Freezing water connected to his grimy face and he splashed carelessly, not mindful of the water flying all around him. He scrubbed hard against his nose and forehead, malcontent with the sebum he’d managed to smear across the pads of his fingers. There was no soap nor towels in the small room, so he flapped his hands, finally brushing them off his suit.

Bad idea.

His hands soaked the slimy viscera and dirt and he had to wash himself all over again. A good scrub later, he auto-piloted and brushed them against his pants instead. He growled at the ceiling. He went through the whole procedure for the third time all while dealing with the pain brought onto him by his sudden head movement. Stopping the water, he gazed at his reflection.

He didn’t like what stared back: baggy-eyed and stubble decorated addict, eyes red and empty. He roamed critically from one feature to another, replacing his usual imperiousness with hate. He pulled and pushed at them as customary discontent ate at him. His efforts of setting them straight proved futile and he shoved himself toward the kitchen.

He moved about the stainless steel appliances more in search of something to distract himself with rather than hunger. A packet of plain granola—most likely used for the diner’s heavily advertised _Yoghurt Crunch_ —crunched in distress as it fell captive to his grasp. He munched on it not unlike a brainless cow and observed across the restaurant. To his surprise everyone had fallen asleep. Even Coach snored heavily, neck cramped back and mouth open.

He tossed the packet back into its dark confinement and opted to stroll through each small corridor formed by the booths’ carefully planned arrangement. Until he knocked his thigh and everything stilled. His magnum pulsed there, inviting. He rubbed his thumb over its metal spine, letting his agony paint his thoughts.

He could be selfish—he was here by choice. He chose to use this group to get to New Orleans. He didn’t need to reason his actions with them; he didn’t need to reason with anybody. That was the plan from day one—he didn’t need to explain himself; just survive this mess. Look out for the desires of number one.

Yet, his fingers itched as he felt across the leather straps. His pads brushed the bumps and scratches there, nestled between the original print. He eyed the door simultaneously, painting a path inside his head. His tongue went over his upper teeth, almost tasting the metal. No more hunger, no more thirst; he wouldn’t sweat or limp, he wouldn’t bruise, neither will he bristle at the smallest sound. No running from city to city, no gnawing rats—just black and endless peace.

The silence accentuated each thump trying to probe through the skin of his temples.

A groan caught his attention, followed by a generous snore—way lighter, but still as rumbling as Coach’s. Rochelle’s body moved, but not by her own accord—it was the body underneath hers that was the source of the disturbance. Ellis’ struggle ceased as abruptly as it had started, and yet, it pushed the conman back 30 feet.

The mechanic had broken the lock of his thoughts, taming his nagging impulses. Nick stepped closer, peering over him stealthily—he seemed to be wrestling with himself. His inner battle showed in a series of grotesque facial contortions culminating in a toothless snarl—so much more different from the lifelessness Nick had been carrying around. His hands, balled into tight fists, spasmed sporadically, adding to his pursed lips and shallow groans. The mechanic was amidst a vivid quandary, yet unable to awaken himself enough to fight it.

Conflict crawled underneath Nick’s skin. Ellis’ dynamic face made him suck in a deep breath. The sensation flowed through him like water on dry earth and he took more and more, realizing he hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. By the end of his exercise his limbs pulled him towards the floor and he sat in his original throne beside the window.

The boy had an effect on him, he couldn’t hide it any longer. They’ve been knee deep into shit and he didn’t cease watching him with those same attentive, sky-clear eyes. He was perfectly annoying, grinding Nick’s wheels like no one else. Or at least no one he would let to walk around with their jaw still attached.

He left Nick with enough room to breathe, but didn’t shy away from stepping on his exposed feet either. He frustrated him and irked his nerves, he drove him to the ends of insanity—and Nick _fucking loved him for it_. He loved the challenge—it wasn’t the cruel kind, where he tore through skin and teeth to crawl out, but a playful recklessness the conman loved to lose himself into. He made everything so easy, so straightforward. He knew nothing about the world, yet everything about honesty and thrust.

Maybe it was that wholehearted sincerity or the fact that never, in all his thirty-five years, had Nick found another human being to love, really love. Yet, it all managed to turn his pessimism, his endlessly moving heart, into an Ellis-only bus stop. But where had his heart been? Certainly not where you could get near it, or even where Nick himself was conscious of its existence. It was why every brave step that Ellis took towards him, Nick met with a startled jump back.

It wasn’t the flirting or sexual tension between the two that made the northerner tip-toe—he would have found peace long ago have it been those. It was the southerner’s showcased heart, untainted and ready to be given in full. It was that same heart undressing his own bit by bit while Nick fought beside him unaware of the ordeal, until he stood in nothing but his week-old underwear.

The gambler was suddenly confronted by all the efficient defenses he’d built over the years—they were there to serve as his fortress, to keep him safe. They’ve been set for others and meant for others. They’ve been built with deliberate care and reinforced by a steel-cold exterior. But what could he do now that that same exterior was cracking—melting under Ellis’ heat? Should he try to desperately fix it back together or give up entirely? In this life you had to have an edge, but what was Nick to do now that Ellis took that same edge, putting it against his throat and trusting him to do the right thing? Could it hurt to trust just as fiercely and let himself love and be loved without malicious intents?

Doubt won easily. It nurtured off Nick’s mind with every abandonment. It fed off his unhealthy indulgences and thrived off his shredded heart. It wasn’t the first step that was hard—it was the sudden fall, like plunging under a violent wave that left him wondering where he went wrong during his peaceful swim. He always trusted his thoughts as they whispered ‘They could be the one.’, yet that same trust kept his head underwater until it was too late to take a breath. He’d go through one relationship and then another—picking pieces he had to be wary of. He then puzzled them together and kept on collecting, until nothing made sense and yet he was full of faulty pieces filling his pockets.

He always found himself starting again—getting out when one of the pieces fit a person and starting with another. He also found himself lowering his guard, becoming less restrictive. One piece wasn’t a big deal, now was it? He could wait and see whether a different would pop up. In the meantime, life would suck him in its irresistible aura, leading him from place to place, following the steps of an intrusive waltz. He’d forget about the pieces, filling his pockets with chips instead, until he would pulse and heave out of nowhere, crushed under his lover’s boot. He would dump them and revert to counting his pieces, repeating the same process all over again.

However, the mechanic made part of that same distracting life now. Nick was able to observe him with full focus and panic as the boy didn’t fit any piece. Nick had waited, compared, pushed him; he even chipped the ends off some pieces in the _hope_ they’d fit. None worked, plunging him into a deeper sense of panic. He had to trust now, there was no time for preparations. But he had the apocalypse on his side, didn’t he? He must—the apocalypse brought everything raw and rotten in a person. It bared them to themselves and whoever was there to see, as there was no place to hide or flee. And Ellis was clearly as pure as Greece’s shades of blue.

Yet, _the pieces,_ Nick _needed_ them to fit—it felt alien not to. It opened a new page, so blank and bright; a page he hadn’t written within. A page he hadn’t experienced. One he hadn’t prepared for.

It took him three tries to discern someone was calling his name.

Rochelle stood at the end of the table, hand mid-stretch. Coach walked behind her on his way to the mechanic; as if they’ve never been asleep at all. Blinking made Nick’s eyes sting.

“I was wondering if you could help me look around?” The morning was still present in her thin vocal cords, mixed with worry. He stood wordlessly, following her stiffly to the kitchen.

The granola he’d disturbed still stood where he’d left it. He’d thrown some of its contents in the sink—around a fistful. Rochelle only noted it briskly, unsuspecting of his fellow teammate’s crime and continued to open cupboards and shift cutlery. Nick had taken on scrunching his nose at the various dust caked on top of the higher surfaces when he caught Rochelle lifting an empty box. It was shallow, wrapped in a broken cellophane wrap with two unopened cola tins rolling inside. She visibly deflated as Nick snatched one for himself, proceeding to devour it in thirsty gulps.

He slid his back down the wall, uncaring of the filth on the floor. He was already a part of it anyway. Rochelle paced hesitantly, but ultimately mimicked him, cracking the second can and taking a deep sip herself. She left a small squeak as the sudden intake of condensed gas hit her nose.

They sat in idle silence at first, like two strangers sharing the same table at an overpopulated bar. The producer set her can on the tiles—still in impenetrable silence—and pulled the material of her jeans up her bruised shins. She decided to shuck her boots off as well, leaving them to her left. She ran her fingers over the skin—once clean and shaven, now sprouting the beginnings of unruly stubble. She nitpicked at the small curled hairs, trying to pull them out with her fingernails. She worked meticulously, losing herself into her own hairy world.

Nick copied her after a while, gliding his own trousers up his equally bruised flesh and running his hands through his virgin locks. Rochelle slowed her movements, confusion filling her tired face. Her fellow northerner played dumb to her inquiring gaze, until a smirk broke through. Rochelle caught up to his antics then, arm coming up to smack his bicep, smiling.

The man returned to drinking his beverage, although this time focusing on its sugary taste. Her voice prickled his ears like a chord out of tune. “You okay? You seem kind of… agitated,” you could almost call her posture shy wasn’t it for the curious gaze she wrapped around him.

Nick’s playful demeanor disappeared, as if he was just wearing a mask. “Just dealing with stuff.”

She averted her gaze, thoughtful. “Yeah… can’t blame you.”

They continued staring at the dirty tiles, listless air filling the room, until the conman took a breath deep enough to shake the forgotten cutlery.

“We’re gonna be fine.” Nick’s expression was almost as vapid as his voice, yet Rochelle understood—he was trying to be nice, to take some of her weight. It did make her feel better. She was about to quip at his sudden optimism when Coach’s voice boomed from inside the diner.

“Girl! Nick! You better come see this!”

A jumble of thoughts crowded their brains and they abandoned their meal, their legs carrying them up to the man in lightning speed. Surprise wasn’t the best term to describe their state at that moment—utter bewilderment and immeasurable happiness was more fitting. Ellis was sitting up, eyes half-mast and glazed with sleep. He rubbed at them, trying to remove the caked discharge. He looked around, gaze empty and a mile away.

Neither of them said anything. The spectacle of the vulnerable hick and his careful breathing absorbed them utterly. Coach held a façade of calm, yet standing close enough showed the excitement pushing through his tense muscles. Rochelle you could read more visibly: her lips blinked rapidly between a smile and a frown, second away from bursting into relieved tears. She covered them with her hands, elbows digging tightly into her sides.

Nick on the other hand had yet to experience the same reaction as his fellow survivors—the emptiness the boy protruded gave him little assurance if any at all. He would’ve started talking or at least smiling by now; so far he’d barely lifted his gaze enough to meet their eyes.

Ellis touched his face, no doubt in search of his shadowy protection. The football coach swiftly reached across the table, handing him Nick’s sunglasses. “How’re you feelin’, son?” He asked while Ellis was in the process of adjusting the glasses. He was eager, but held tightly onto every thread of patience he could muster. When Ellis didn’t answer, his brows scrunched and he placed a hand on his knee.

Ellis murmured, drawl softly rasped. “Aah’m faan.”

Coach’s frown deepened. “Just fine?”

The mechanic hummed shortly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the seven seas.

Coach wasn’t convinced. “Lemme… here, let’s still check on ya.” He groped the mechanic’s ribs, his back, his neck; no reaction. “Hurtin’?”

Ellis shook his head flavorlessly.

The elder didn’t take favor to the answer, but accepted it, stepping back and motioning for the rest to do the same. Nick and Rochelle were led away like a group of children witnessing a terrible accident, yet unable to comprehend it fully. He maneuvered them a few booths further, away from the mechanic’s earshot. The producer barely held back, ready to burst into a stream of questions, not unlike a Jehovah’s witness denied her entrance to the church. He took both of their opposite shoulders, treating them like the same individual. “There’s no reason to panic—I’ve seen this before. All he needs is some time and space.”

While Rochelle’s interrogation beat against his left ear, the northerner peered around, spectating. Ellis was shimmying arduously along his seat, pushing himself to the edge on shaky arms. He was disoriented—looking around himself like a newborn. It was obvious he suffered by the same illness as Nick; rubbing the sides of his head and digging into his temples. He stood precautiously, holding tightly onto the wood gluing the different booths together. Taking his first step, he faltered, taking a break just when he’d started. He looked nothing like the vivacious man from a day ago—panting from exertion just by standing his full height.

His body trembled—a silent scream for mercy—as he pulled himself up again. He shifted his gaze, locking eyes with the northerner; or at least that’s what Nick thought as the depthless plastic of his sunglasses stared back. It was but a brief interruption and the southerner continued shimmying away with no greater success in the next moment. He went around the perimeter of the diner, keeping his hands on the bar stools for support. It was when he took a seat on them that the rest noticed him. They were about to protest his active spur, but Ellis was quick to clarify. “Imma piss maself.” His lips broke into a crooked, lethargic smile—the last to come for a few days.

The headaches were present from day one. They were unlike any the mechanic had suffered from before—from a heavy pressure behind his forehead and the back of his neck to tiny, furious sound systems pulsating in his temples, ready to break through his skin. What pain medication he had received didn’t stop them, but it did succeed in making him care a lot less about them. Enough for him to spend the whole day asleep. If he wasn’t sleeping he’d wake up smothered in fog, taking whatever the others put in his hands and succumbing back to his overwhelming exhaustion.

The second day wasn’t much different, yet a lot better. He was still a slave to those same headaches, but he managed to stay awake for most of the day. He stumbled around, his reactions clumsy and delayed, trying to fight off the stiffness in his legs. He even managed a container of some sad apple mouse. He kept wearing his sunglasses at all times since even the slightest prick of light triggered a crescendo of pain. Moving into the darker spots of what he found out was a diner proved rather difficult that way, but their pain medication was subsiding and he didn’t want to hoard everything from the rest.

The third day, when his cycle of blankness still hadn’t broken, was when the rest had started visiting him. First, it was Rochelle, tip-toeing up to him and touching his forehead and wrists. He didn’t remember what they spoke about, just her crushed expression at each short answer she received. She resigned herself back to her spot, taking whatever warmth she had brought to him with her. Then, it was Coach. The big man asked him some health related questions, which Ellis answered mechanically. He’d wavered a few times, not knowing how to bring in a new beginning to a conversation and left him with a squeeze of his shoulder and a nod of his old, tired head. His last visitor surprised even himself. Nick didn’t talk much, neither did he stay much. He only observed him from afar. He slithered off after an imprecise amount of time, returning just a minute later with some more apple mouse and disappearing to the bathrooms.

Surprisingly, the mechanic wasn’t a stranger to this feeling of utter emptiness. Sometimes it would have a trigger and other times it would just appear and knock him out of place. He would spend the day and a half wallowing in his shell and would be back to himself by lunch. An ill alignment to his monotone routine you could say. This was far different, however—it was like someone had knocked the core of his very being cold with a sledgehammer.

He was lost in the blurry recesses of his brain at first, unable to understand his feelings and process them fully. The panic followed as the days ticked by; as he was unable to return to his old self. It was as if his insides had been scooped like a Halloween pumpkin; just a few threads of meat hanging by. It wasn’t him, yet he was caged in it—abrupt and non-negotiable. He had to ride through it as it splashed waves of cold water against his chest and rocked the boat of his existence. He had pushed his only support team away, persuading them that he just needed time and space, while in fact, it was far from what he craved. He was in utter shackles, afraid to ask for help. Even if he did he would find a way to sew denial into his statement, wiping any sense off it. They would give up, brushing him off and making the gap between them even bigger; so big he couldn’t cross it.

However, even the emptiness couldn’t suppress the guilt. His state alone had forced his team to dig a trench in the middle of the apocalypse, to hide when safety flew over them every day. The helicopter’s blades rattled the space around him with their insistent gyration, screwing into him the reality of their situation: if his team had left him they would’ve already been safe. There was no way to signal the chopper from where they were located—this was the flattest space of the whole park. There were no rides tall enough to catch the pilot’s attention, there were no lights bright enough to illuminate their space. It was just them and the misery Ellis brought with him. They could’ve— _should’ve—_ left long ago. Even now the mechanic could see the way each member tensed, instinct pumping adrenaline into their veins as the helicopter scoured, readying them for the run of their lives. He could also sense their bitter resignation as they sneaked glaces his way, pleading from their very souls. Ellis had pretended to sleep each time, hoping that when he opened his lids again they would be gone without him.

Little did he know Nick was never going to let that happen—where he went the boy went with him. Even if he had to carry him all the way to New Orleans. Every time a helicopter flew over them it weighted heavily onto his fight or flight instincts, reminding him they shouldn’t have split. It dug into him perpetually, stealing every opportunity to get to safety from his tight grasp. Yet, the intimacy that grew towards the southerner kept him in place. It was a chance he was given and it was the last thing he wanted to lose. The mechanic persevered through Nick’s insults and barrage, through his rough mannerism and cruel jokes. He even worked with them, making it thus the more enjoyable for the northerner; he made him want to keep going. It was addicting he had to admit—even his cruelest quips were met with that same charming smile. He loved how the southerner’s eyes would ignite, reflecting their surroundings and painting them in frivolous colors. His posture would chip playfully and he’d get back at him through his own innocent remarks. His recklessness led the way and the northerner let him follow.

Yet, now Nick was the one following him as the southerner trailed through the establishment. The lack on springiness to his steps was almost painful. He’d been collecting various parts for the past half an hour—no wonder needed for his secret concoction. Colorful birthday candles, a raggedy cleaning mop, a bowl of water, matches; it was after he saw him lumber two short sections of steel water pipes that every ingredient clicked— _pipe bombs_.

The mechanic leaned heavily against his workplace, fingers shifting idly as he prepared to work. His lips pursed in dissatisfaction and he disappeared behind the oily counters, snooping through the kitchen. Nick was enjoying his small performance so much he barely noticed being called over by the brisk, repetitive motions of his large hands.

Ellis stood next to a ladder, his right leg on the first step, expectant. Nick understood what was asked of him, grabbing the cold metal sides. The entrepreneur climbed, steps careful and steady. He had positioned the ladder just under one of the countless fire alarms littered across the ceilings. He unhinged the device with a few smooth twists and after repeating the process on another alarm, mumbled a barely there ‘Thanks.’ and returned to his work desk.

“Aah remember one taahm Keith was with his lady at the taahm, an’ she was actshually like a vegetarian and stuff, so he brought her tah the local diner, ‘cause he didn’ know how tah cook anythin’ other than pork sausages and beer Cheetos. Now, the gurl was naace—she knew ‘bout Japanese culture an’ stuff—so we’re talkin’ an’ all an’ then all of a sudden Paul comes intah the buildin’ holdin’ a dead squirrel.” He sputtered into a bubbly laugh. “Now, he had frozen it, so it didn’ have any bacteria or anythin’ laak that, but she still went _mad_ , ‘cause he started chasin’ her with it. Then the manager came tah ask what they were doin’ an’ when he saw that squirrel,” he used his hands to give life to his story, “he straight up snatched it off an’ was ‘bout to kick ‘im out, but, get this, the squirrel was still _alaave_.” His eyes grew larger and larger with each word and the rest couldn’t help, but mimic his toothy grin. “It squeaked so loud an old woman heard it from ‘cross the establishment,” he slowed down, chewing over the word, “and the _whole_ diner exploded in pure panic! Aah got intah trouble with Keith, ‘cause Aah was laughin’ so hard Aah couldn’ breathe, man-!” His snort crescendo was interrupted by Rochelle practically crashing into him. She squeezed him so hard, he actually had to stop her before she snapped his neck. When she pulled back with a half-hearted apology, her eyes were moist and her face was full of color for the first time in days.

“I would have never thought I’d miss your stories,” she was still holding his face, some of her own color bleeding into his cheeks.

He pouted, feigning offence. “So, yew don’ laak mah stories?”

It was convincing. “No, honey, it’s just- “, she backpedaled, searching for the right words, but the mechanic’s false composure was already cracking, bearing fruit to a devilish grin. As if just seeing his face she stopped, those same hands pinching his cheeks and pulling them in opposite sides.

She was only stopped by Coach, who cleared his throat and pushed her gently to the side. Ellis’ freedom was stolen just as quickly as it was given—by his own savior at that—as Coach leaned down to squeeze him against his torso. It was a hug stronger than anything the Georgian had ever known; as if holding him wasn't quite enough for the large man, Ellis had to feel every ounce of him. His big, strong arms seemed very protective when wrapped around his healing body. It was so warm, yet so different than a motherly embrace.

When he lifted him up in the air, not letting go and only pressing him closer, the feelings of momentary inadequacy and his protests disappeared just as fast as they’ve overcome him. He cracked under the insistent pressure, wrapping his legs as far as they could go around the coach’s waist and squeezing just as hard. His eyes had begun to moisten so he closed them, tucking his chin into the elder’s meaty shoulder.

From the side it was the perfect picture of a squirrel holding onto a large tree. The producer took a moment to quench her laugh before wrapping her tinier arms around them as well. She missed a fourth pair of arms, deeming their group hug incomplete.

“Gonna join the hug, suit?” The suit clad man had been just as ready to come and hug the southerner, although he was too cool to come and do so. He was always Joe Cool, as though his team and Ellis, and everyone else he’s grown emotionally attached to were just people, only mankind about which he couldn’t care less.

And he didn’t let her expectations down now either. “I might catch cooties.”

Ellis perked up, sponging any offence she might’ve had, scrunching his face into a frown. “Nick, don’ be rude.” His tone was warning, prompting Nick to stick his tongue out, which he returned back—the two men losing themselves into a war of tongues.

Coach sighed, setting the toothpick male down and turning his body enough to encompass everyone’s attention with his stern face. “Enough. I’m too hungry for this shit.” His face suddenly rebooted, throwing his expression into a whirlpool of emotions. “Wait… Oh, hell, has any of you checked the storage room?!”

The group paused. They’ve each fought for a sense of normalcy in the days that had passed, disregarding their hunger and pain, indulging only their thirst with stale tap water. They’ve all been too worried to look around, either guarding Ellis or trying to steal some sleep. Now, with their king enraged, they set their minds upon one goal: appeasing the beast.

The kitchen cupboards were exhausted of their quick tricks, so they bypassed it, all cramming behind the restrooms where the storage and freezer resided. What they found inside the cool rooms was how shitty this diner used to be—which made them extremely lucky in this apocalyptic scenario. Frozen meat patties, fries and hash browns. Pancake powder and cheap, off-brand syrup. Hot dogs, bacon, waffles, chicken, sausages, beans and even overly acidic coleslaw. They snatched everything with greedy palms leaving only the suspicious eggs and less-than-fresh vegetables behind. Right off the bat they wasted little time, washing their hands and collecting pans eagerly. The group worked in unison—each a master chef in their own corner.

When his tasks diminished and the atmosphere became suffocating, Nick exited, making himself comfortable against a booth just shortly out of range. It wasn’t surprising that after turning like a fly with its head cut off the hick followed. He looked more drained than the felon had expected. Still, he threw his butt non too gently onto the leathery cushions, but regretted it soon after, wincing as he touched the back of his neck with light fingers.

It didn’t take long for his mouth to open, yapping about this and the other, relentlessly abusing Nick’s gunk filled ears. His voice had regained its lost overzealousness, turning each word into its own tune. The plume of his breath billowed out and quickly dissipated in the cool air of the building. It wasn’t cold enough for his lips to leave a trail of smoke behind—just enough to suggest the lack of summer warmth. During his heated monologue his face would change, bringing Nick to a whole new world of never-seen-before detail.

His lips would twist and his tongue would swivel, suggesting a halt, but never truly going with it—always finding a way to fill in the gap of an incomplete sentence. His cheeks would inflate and deflate rapidly, morphing his expression each time. His eyes would move about as well, remapping each piece of their surroundings over and over again. Sometimes they’d halt and focus, other times they’d just jump from feature to feature—never bored of the same old shapes and colors. His face was a factory for dynamicity, a maternity home for a diversity of expressions. Nick wanted to catch each of them, keep them between his fingers, retain the way each one made him feel.

And that’s what Ellis felt him do as Nick stepped in front of him, his hands removing his sunglasses and fingers cupping his cheeks. The mechanic’s throat closed abruptly as the northerner’s muscular form blotted his surroundings. He was entranced and mute, letting himself be molded like a clay statue by Nick’s cool hands. The gambler’s fingers trailed over his brows, disturbing the hairs of his eyelashes, making the southerner blink. They traveled across the apples of his cheeks, riding up the hill of his nose and pushing against the healing scar. It wasn’t hard enough to disturb it—just enough to memorize its ragged shape. Ellis’ mind almost began recalling how it had gotten there in the first place, when Nick took an unexpected turn of pinching his nostrils together, startling him into redirecting his attention back on the northerner’s movements.

Nick huffed a laugh, sliding those same devilish fingers down to Ellis’ cupid’s bow, opening his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. He kept it there, trailing the warm saliva on the surface of his dry lips. He pressed harder, just barely grazing the mechanic’s front teeth and pulled back to rest his appendage against the center of the plump flesh. Ellis’ surroundings proved disinteresting, monotone compared to the scene unfolding on his skin. He had way more interest observing the other’s silver clouds too. With the usual sharpness melted, only a soft woolen blanket was left behind-

“Ready!”

Both men snapped away sharply, Coach’s voice burning them like a hot stove. Nick’s hand landed heavily onto Ellis’ head, caving the sunglasses onto his face and shaking his brain roughly. He was gone into the kitchen before Ellis knew what has befallen him. His skin tingled where the northerner had touched him and his head throbbed from the attack. A thousand questions and none at all flew through him as his heart fought for an escape through his ribcage: why had Nick touched him? Why did he let him? What did this all mean? _What happened just now?_

He touched where Nick had hit him—his hat! The southerner removed it, touching its brim like greeting a long lost friend; each stitch new, yet, oh, so familiar. He took a big whiff. Buffalo wings. An uncontrollable grin took hold of him, fighting with the tight and stiff muscles of his face. He returned it to nest on his embarrassingly long curls, slicking them back to hide them underneath. He removed the mysterious sunglasses he’d grown so familiar to and perched them atop of it as well. He looked like a pretty cool dude.

Nick returned, unloading a tray and sitting next to him as if nothing had happened. The mechanic was given no time to dwell as the rest flooded in, holding trays of their own.

Sitting there amid the mixed aromas of pig fat and coffee he could almost feel the waves of pleasure beating on him. Coach was clearly enchanted by the whole ordeal, experiencing a mounting euphoria visible on his creased face. Rochelle was wearing a zestful smile also, which always accompanied her during the group’s moments of peace and simple comfort.

As Ellis began to eat ecstatically, feeling the strength ebbing back, he glanced uneasily at the clogged entrance. The group hadn’t heard much of the commons since their retreat except for the random thud of a tired limb or a low, far-off groan. Ellis himself couldn’t even recall the last time he’d seen them—the moments before the merry-go-round seemed dim and far-off; more like a child’s memory rather than something that’s happened no more than a week ago. Actually, everything felt like that since the moment he had awoken. Any headache festering amplified as soon as he’d started thinking or processing any actual information. He’d tried memorizing the layout to the toilets in the first couple of hours and was left nauseated for the rest of the day.

His chews slowed the more he focused, stopping his nutrient intake at once. Plan after plan materialized before his eyes: with weapons or without, with pans and mops, with fire and water. They knitted together like a pretty necklace, each piece with its own flaws and victories.

They were pushed out of him by an artillery fry. It lobotomized him between the brows, startling him into reality. The football coach smiled triumphantly in front of him, accompanied by Rochelle’s impressed claps. “Getcho strength back, youngin’—the zombies can wait,” his tone was fatherly, commanding with care.

Ellis could only smile as he shoved a mouthful of fries into his maw.

After a while the busy silence bored the fuse sized male. “Damn, Nick, yer probably use’ta them fancy rest’rants, with laak, livin’ shrimp an’ stuff.” 

Nick let out a haughty snort through a mouthful of hash browns and bacon. His mouth was still full when he said: “I cook too, you know.”

The northerner was still looking at him as Ellis let out a soft ‘Oh.’ He’d thought so highly of the man—putting him on the pedestal reserved for those rich and inviolable. He thought it ridiculous to put the man, although still rich, on his uninvolved level where most things were done by hand and lacked any extensive polish. His mouth slowed, somewhat literally chewing over his next words. “Kin yew cook me somethin’?”

The question took Nick by surprise. He threw an off-handed glance to the side, just to find a nervous expression on the southerner’s face. It was almost as if the mechanic was asking him to prom—the more Nick stalled, the more fidgety the boy became. It was honestly adorable.

He took another mouthful. “Sure, once we get out of this mess.”

Satisfied with the man’s answer, the boy returned to eating his meal, body shining brighter than it had been in days.

The shutters cracked, revealing the heart of their hideout. Standing in the open left Ellis fidgety and tense, but as long as him and his companion kept silent nothing was going to attack them. The vast space was empty, few zombies strolling between the mixed tents. At the corner where the lamplight was reflected in the trees’ leafs he had the brief impression of a fleeing form and a faint echo of laughter. He couldn’t do anything about it from his crouched position, but he knew a Jockey was out there somewhere.

Nick was not further back, crouched with him. Him and the mechanic had proposed whipping up a plan while the rest of their team packed leftovers for on the go. No one was sure what amount of infected were lured by the alarm, but luckily for now there was just a small cluster of them in the middle of the open space. None of the zombies noticed as Ellis stood up and kicked a propane tank he’d dug from the back of the family restaurant. It rolled up to them successfully until it tapped against a zombie’s shoe. The mechanic cringed at the soft noise, the sound ten times amplified in his strained ears. The melting entity looked at it with confusion, but strolled away just as calmly.

The coaster’s ringing alarm was loud enough to cover their whispers. “Yew think it’s gonna explode if Aah shot it?”

“Nope, Hollywood fiction, kid.”

Ellis rubbed his stubble covered chin. It was way thinner than Nick’s, but just as prickly. “Maybe,” he set his rifle down, rummaging through his pockets, “maybe these would help?”

In his hand he held three tiny bullets. Dangerous blue glinted on their tips, reflecting the morning light. Nick took one from his palm, turning it between his fingertips. “Incendiary ammo?”

The mechanic nodded. “Yep, found them at Whitaker’s place, but tha’s all Aah have. Should work as a way tah ingaat it though.”

Nick smirked. “Very clever of you, fireball.” He returned the bullets, keeping one for himself. The praise flustered the southerner, forcing him to turn his head and focus on his new task instead.

Ellis loaded the remaining rounds in his rifle, letting it rest on the wooden fence separating the entrance from the open space of the park. He let the infected cluster together slowly, following the lead of a curious clown. He strained through his scope. Just as enough populace collected around the dangerous ornament he took a deep breath and pressed the trigger.

A single shot flew through the air in high power, puncturing the metal. The zombies let out inquiring groans, but before they knew what was happening, Ellis followed with the second round, igniting the gas. It burst into a hot cloud, encompassing whatever flesh it touched in searing flames. It was a short, movie-style pyrotechnic explosion leaving what zombies remained to run in circles shrieking to death. Neighboring zombies startled from the sound and sprinted in no clear direction, just to halt abruptly as if awoken by a sudden nightmare. A moment later they continued their uneasy patrol as if nothing had happened.

Rochelle sneaked behind the men, trying hard to probe her thin arms through a plastic take out bag while making as little noise as possible. She was followed by the elder who walked with surprising softness to his heavy steps. Armed with sandwiches and less than full guns, the group threaded though the desolate park with the shadow of the roller coaster looming threateningly behind them.

As they marched out of the diner they were indulged by the first crisp, tangy breath of air, mixed with the spice of anticipation. The safety of the diner didn’t have much effect in quenching their homesickness for the outside. Even in summer there was little warmth to the morning Georgia air and each indulged themselves as they half closed their eyes and followed the tingle all the way down to their lungs.

With his eyes still a little sore Ellis unhooked the dark plastic, covering his tired face. His body was coming back together—he felt it hurting in all kinds of places, but he was alive and able, so that was great news. The usual enthusiasm to his steps was replaced by exhaustion nestled deep within his bones. He needed more time to rest, he knew it, yet he couldn’t risk his team missing the possibility of an evacuation helicopter. He just needed to clench his teeth and put one leg in front of the other, until they’ve safely landed in New Orleans.

Bypassing the tents, they reached a big clearing. To his left Ellis saw Mustachio’s strength tester—a long flashy pole adorned by small cut outs in various sizes, each with its own measurement. The bulbous hammer was nowhere to be found and had he more strength the mechanic would’ve used his axe to test what years of hard work in the auto shop have done. Instead, he focused on testing his strength on the various white-eyed creatures populating the area. With his hands, face, hair and every pore of his skin impregnated with fatty burgers and waffles, those commons seemed to have turned into straw puppets.

Their fatty meal had done wonders to his empty stomach, yet left him sluggish and sleepy too. He lagged at the back and it wasn’t long before the producer came to check on him. “You okay, sweetie?” Her voice had collected back its tense note, but left plenty of space for her sisterly sweetness.

He gifted her with his best smile. “Yeah, jus’ full is all.”

She accepted it, but didn’t leave his side. It was obvious she had more to say. “Say… you did look pretty red talking to Nick back there…” She didn’t continue, letting Ellis catch her drift on his own.

The simple comment wiped the remnants of his smile. His mind quickly recalled the way Nick’s smooth hands had trailed across the span on his face, his usually hard eyes turned to soft butter. He didn’t know why he felt so scared. It was like he’d been caught doing something wrong; like he crossed an invisible line set to him before the apocalypse.

He swiftly whipped a hasty smile to replace the lost one. It felt crooked and uneven, but nevertheless accepted without any visible question. “Oh, yeah, uh, ‘t was nothin’,” his brain scrambled to invent a story. “Jus’ talkin’.”

It was her turn to smile. “Well, obviously—‘cause I ain’t letting you two have a chicken fight with zombies a foot away. “

 _Oh._ **That** moment.

During their small talk they’ve managed to come closer to the two men, who unaware of their conversation had managed to start one of their own. It was in no way interesting, but still it surprised Ellis to see them act so symbiotically. Rochelle patted his back, reverting his attention to her one last time. “Don’t let him bully you, cowboy,” her tone was playful, but her words held their truth.

“Of course not, Ro,” he said, relieved to have misunderstood her.

Their march through the chaotic bumper cars was quiet and uneventful safe for a stray infected ready to have its head decapitated. The group had slowed to rearrange themselves around the southerner, making sure to keep him by their side at all times. Outside the small building more gates awaited them, beckoning them deeper into the park. A tornado flew over them, a steel bird enveloped in a yellowish costume. No jumping or running would have made it turn its course back towards them—they weren’t unlike any other zombie from this distance—yet it didn’t stop Coach from exclaiming: “There’s that chopper again!”

“We need tah faand a way tah singal it.”

Rochelle chimed in with something unexpected. “Boys, I’m not showing _anyone_ my tits,” her tone was firm, final.

Even so, Nick still tried his best. “Not even me?”

Her expression turned exasperated, leaving her mouth gaping. “ _Especially_ not you.”

They all shared a laugh except Coach, who regarded the imposing walls of the stadium. His brows were furrowed, hands coming up to palm his growing salt and pepper fur. He let go of a hum. “Let’s get inside the stadium, I have an idea.”

“How are we even going to get in there-?” Even before she’d finished her question the northerner had already scalded the short green fence to the other side.

He spurred them on through his shoulder. “Come on, I’ve had enough of this place.”

Each survivor jumped in their own pace, picking off infected on their way to a hopeful outcome.


	12. Concert

In the boxy safe room big plans spilled from the elder’s lips. “Y’all know the _Midnight Riders_? They’re gonna save us!” His voice rose, confidence filling his shoulders and puffing up his chest.

Confusion passed off the silent beat that followed. Even the usually enthusiastic mechanic rubbed his neck, properly perturbed. “Coach, Aah’d hate tah break it to ya, but… Aah don’ think they’re actshully here.”

His tone carried empathy and personal regret; it was like he was comforting a kindergartener while he too held hope that Santa was real. The rest turned his attention to him in turn, confusion tightening their faces even further.

Even Coach shook his head, yet continued with a steady tone. “We start their finale, that chopper’s gonna know something’s up. Because _nobody_ —and I mean _no-bo-dy_ —has a bigger pyrotechnic show than the _Midnight Riders_!” The unrestrained passion in his voice attracted an Infected’s arm yet again. It slithered between the sturdy metal bars, scratching the elder’s sleeve. He huffed, swatting it with his crowbar and leaving it hanging with a sickening crunch.

The petit reporter turned her left earring between her thin fingers, making light reflect off its shiny surface in winks. “...And that will signal the chopper pilot! Coach, that's _brilliant_! ...I'm sorry about all the bad things I said about your crappy band...” Her shoulders scrunched, an apologetic laugh rolling off her tongue.

With the grace of an experienced father the elder just smiled, not minding either way.

Ellis’ drawl didn’t miss its chance to catch up to the conversation, its braided-in enthusiasm leaving little room for possible arguments; or anything at all. “Man, this’s gonna be laak the... _fourth_ taahm the _Midnaaght Raaders_ have saved mah laaf! Aah always wanted tah run to a helicopter durin’ a guitar solo! Jus’ laak in a music video!”

Even the conman was on board with the baseless plan. What’s more, the pure ridiculousness of it had managed to pull a smile from his thin lips. “Coach, that is about the stupidest idea I have ever agreed with.”

The coach felt right in his skin. “Then let’s do it.”

His hefty hand settled on the door, yet he made no move to push it. “First we do a quick check around for corn dogs.”

Nick, Rochelle and Ellis all stared at him, faces blank. Then, with a snap of a finger their faces underwent a plethora of emotions, questions bubbling at the tips of their tongues. He let them simmer, enjoying the scene and storing a few laughs for later use. Just as they were on the brink of combustion, he followed with: “Nah, I’m just playin’. Grab yo’ weapons and let’s go.”

As they continued on, with Rochelle hot on the jokester’s heels and Ellis marching behind them with an amused laugh, Nick stayed behind. He’d barely crossed a few steps past the outline of his shadow, enamored with the writings on the wall: some scribbled hastily, accompanied by neat cursive and others unrecognizably bold and chunky. They were strewn in an awkward pile, letters careless about boundaries or readability. A few less-than-colorful jokes swam in between—an awkward attempt to lighten the mood.

Until that moment the conman had thought of them as gibberish—a last rebellion in a lawless world. Yet now as he stared at them up close, he saw sense.

It was a scribbly mess, voices long lost and gone. They were fighting each other—some holding on to the last thread of unrealistic hope they nurtured and others calling them out. Nick was split in two: his desperation begged him to side with the underlined positivity, but he saw more truth in the calm panic of the exhausted gloom.

The rest of the wall was empty except for a surprisingly civil pile of _Midnight Riders_ fans mourning or cursing the loss of their favorite entertainers. Some of them bordering on hostile—most making him laugh.

Unlikely.

Highly unlikely.

Can’t blame them.

Sure is.

What the—?

“Nick?”

Ellis stood by the door, gaze shining softly with confusion. It swam between the blue of his pupils; specks of gold mingled with the color of the celestial dome. Fine-tuned and ever so observant when it came to his teammates, his heart had noticed Nick’s absence, prepared to bring him back to his side.

With hesitation creeping up the back in his neck, Nick eyed him from afar. Whatever was meant on that wall, true or false, was far from the good news the team was ready to soak in. False and they would have yet another thing scratching at the back of their minds, and indeed true—it’ll dig a hole directly into their brains and cause unrest to spike and topple over.

He could tell the mechanic, though, couldn’t he? He was in no way a baby and far more well-versed when it came to delivering bad news. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he the strongest although youngest? Hadn’t he been the first to calm them down or shine light in the deepest of labyrinths? Couldn’t he strap the load of just one more problem on top of his shoulders and tell Nick everything was going to be okay?

The intensity of the mechanic’s stare had far from diminished; so thick, swirling like smoke around Nick’s head. Feeling the sensation of every hair on his body rising, he inhaled, almost longing to let the taste of this possibility sit on his tongue.

He licked his lips. Not this time.

With a last look he unsheathed his Magnum, walking up to the southerner with the intent to follow. Ellis in turn let him take the lead, throwing a curious look at a mystery he wasn’t allowed to resolve.

With the recent tragedy still plaguing the group, it wasn’t surprising to see that Coach and Rochelle hadn’t gone far. Holding a guarding post in front of what looked like a kitchen space, a conversation was trying to die on their lips. Coach’s eyes were furrowed as Rochelle’s lips sprinted across a string of words. The elder shook his head and threw a pointed look behind her shoulder, where an eye-catching prize board screamed its prizes with a timeless greed for attention.

Nearing them the two men heard the last pieces of their subdued conversation: “…for the bottled water,” Coach had said, jabbing his meaty forefinger at the twisted handwriting.

“Should we check?” Rochelle asked.

“It’s locked.” Unnoticed, Nick had slipped past all of them, wrist shoving the round knob, making the door’s hinges grumble. The scenario proved way too familiar to the reporter. Her hands went up to ruin her hairdo yet again, but was stopped short by Nick’s voice.

“From the inside.”

She paused. As did the two southerners. The group huddled together, each trying the knob for themselves; not unbelieving, but _unwilling_ to believe. At each unsuccessful attempt their dissatisfaction grew and grew, until it was dripping a trail across the floor, pooling sludge at their feet.

This was yet another challenge pushing at their limits.

A second passed and a minute followed, but the group still hadn’t moved into action. Each of them was playing their part in an invisible argument, determined to get their point across to the rest: Nick ready to give up and move forward, Ellis all too willing to follow—the ever-loyal pup—Coach determined to pack their pockets full of bottled water and Rochelle playing with the logistics, her frame closing in to the health teacher with every rational thought that crossed her.

Whoever stepped into the puddle of dissatisfaction first would be the one to set the course of the group’s next action. And, well, Nick didn’t like making his shoes dirty. So when the elder pried the rusty shaft with his crowbar, he aimed to let him without much of a restrained look.

A couple of strong heaves was all needed to pry the metal, tearing its bolts with a monstrous screech. Ellis and Rochelle snapped into position, barrels scanning the empty corridor. A breathless minute later they returned their attention to their new path.

Small and dark the opening left a little too much to the imagination. Holding one’s breath, you could almost hear the faint echoes usual to a deep cave—desolate and alone, hiding inside the heart of a mountain. Coach lowered himself—keeping his bad knee in check the entire time—and peered inside.

He didn’t expect to see much and wasn’t given much. Yet, an unexpected smell hit his nose, jostling him upward. Driven by instinct, his fingers came up to clamp his nostrils with a sputtered curse. The pungent stench didn’t fail to follow, rolling down his throat in a thick wave. He coughed a few times, trying to dislodge it, yet only managing to suck more in.

“Alright, someone needs to take a look,” he said, still coughing, his gaze boring into their mousy member.

Nick and Rochelle had turned to the mechanic also, regarding him with the same intensity. He on the other hand scanned all of them in turn and as realization dawned on him, so did his pose tense. “Oh, y’all’ve got tah be shittin’ me…”

Rochelle was quick to defend herself. “Ellis, sweetie, you’re the only one who could fit besides me. I would’ve tried, but…” Her hands found her hips, suggesting the unpractical abundance of her figure. Ellis didn’t seem convinced, but he also wasn’t the one to let a lady crawl on a shit-caked floor.

With Coach and Nick clearly useless themselves, it wasn’t too hard to imagine how the scenario would play itself out. His hands found purchase in his hair, swiping it back, hoping to let some frustration off with the movement. And he gave in. He deposited his rifle, his shotgun and his axe to the ground. He unhooked the med pack strapped to his waist. He crouched on all fours and faced the tight shaft.

His head went in first without much if a problem and stretching his arms helped his shoulders as well. The tight corridor where his legs sprawled really asked a lot of his flexibility, but he managed to drag his waist through, too. However, just as fire had started dancing under his chaffed arms and knees he got stuck. His _ass_ got stuck.

His heart increased its rhythm as he scuffed the tips of his steel-toed shoes and patted against the tiled floor in effort to pull himself in deeper. The smell was coming even stronger now, gagging him with each small move. Even so that couldn’t take his mind off his increasingly stubborn behind, which the opening held on to with a vice grip. With one last heave he managed to propel himself through. His knee made contact with the edge of the opening, sending a jolt through his system, but he hopped on his feet, avoiding further embarrassment.

Inside, the true scale of the smell encompassed his head in an instant, sticking to every pore in his skin. His eyes watered and he continued to gag, pinching the underside of his nose in a futile attempt to stop the invasive odor.

Darkness blotted his surroundings, turning him blind. He twisted back down, dragging his rifle through the hole to him and flicking on its light.

A row of counters lined the four walls, winking at him with each swipe of his flashlight. It was cooler here—way cooler than it had been a mere foot back. Monotone walls accentuated said coolness with their impersonal faces and faded shades of ugly purple. They far from possessed anything to give him comfort, save for a few old oil stains; a result of countless nights spent cooking up greasy snacks for the park’s guests.

His light caught onto a dense form in the far corner. Its shadows blended together like a sack of potatoes and for a moment Ellis really thought of it as such. Yet, as he stepped closer, the darkness morphed into a body. Something was wrong. With each step the mechanic took the walls around it… pulsed?

His throat convulsed as his light skimmed over them. Flies; hundreds of fat, green flies. The mechanic was rooted to the spot, mouth hanging open. It would take just a clap for the mass to move. One clap and he’d be filled with creatures that have feasted on death itself.

Said death had been fused with the tiles surrounding it, the red of a cook’s uniform soaked with its juices. Ellis could almost chew the body’s smell from this close, its fluid having leaked from the fabric and creating a musky puddle that crept under the fridges.

He stared at the face of the melting man: his mouth tinned, cheeks sagging as the skin and lard had proved too much for his slack muscles. Animation danced under his skin, the movement coming from inside his mouth and flowing out of his eye sockets. White, well-fed maggots took turns occupying the cook’s skin, wearing him like a warm sleeve. Some had ruptured the veins in his face, wiggling their oily bodies in and out.

That did it for Ellis. 

With great cautiousness he tip-toed backwards, ready to crawl back out. Just before he turned, however, sympathy prickled under his skin, blotting the off-putting nature of the scene for just a moment.

The man had been scared. That’s why he hid; he’d been abandoned.

Turning around he ventured towards the shaft, but bright orange stopped him a step away from the entrance.

Outside his group waited, restlessness growing with each second the mechanic was out of sight. If anything happened to him inside that room, there was little they could do to save him in time. The fact that they couldn’t see him was scary in on itself, but it was the lack of any substantial noise that ticked them off most—the calm shimmy of steel-toed boots having the opposite of a soothing effect.

“Boy?” Coach’s tone penetrated the thin wall, arms crossed and waiting. “Anythin’ of use?”

A moment or two more of rustling and a hollow click later and the steps came closer to the door. The knob turned. From there the mechanic exited, expression hidden by his blue cap. In his hands he carried a defibrillator—the machine clasped between a white-washed grip.

They were all taken aback. They knew what possibility the machine presented and neither of them was ready to face it. Even if only used in cases of a heart attack or drowning, it didn’t matter to them at that moment—its presence disturbing enough as is.

Ellis still hadn’t looked up, busying himself with the neatly rolled cables. Rochelle rolled her earrings insistently, teeth chewing the flesh of her lips. Nick mimicked her nervous gesture, but with no earrings to roll, he brushed the back of his neck instead. They all pretended to not see the red flag the machine presented.

It was yet again left on Coach to move them. “Alright, no time to dwell,” he said, making his team look at him.

“Let’s go have ourselves a concert.”

The corridor wasn’t unused to large crowds and long queues: its expanse bared home to a plethora of small green benches, food tents colored in unnatural ways and a sea of garbage. Advertisements hung from the sky-high ceiling like spider webs, some broken up and twisted and others baring holes revealing the room’s cavity. Light was sparse—the only shine coming from a lamp just above the toilets’ opening; illuminating just a small patch of grainy, dirty ground.

Nick, however, was unable to notice any of it—attention snatched by Ellis’ shapely behind.

He couldn’t fail but notice the short pause Ellis took as he was trying to shove his ass through the vent; feet scuffing on the tiles in clear distress. The conman had to give everything at that moment not to try and push him through himself.

The mechanic’s coveralls left a little too much to the imagination—it was like the southerner deliberately tried hiding what God was so kind to gift him with as much baggy fabric as possible. It was the main reason the gambler always managed to skip over it, settling his eyes on his perky pecs and snatched waist instead. Yet, now armed with his new discovery, his mind spun various ways of getting to grab handfuls of the flesh.

His eyes shamelessly groped him as they walked, trying to discern just the exact shape of the mechanic’s ass as the group made its way to the vast expanse of the stadium.

The heart of the stadium was nestled in an artificial valley of stone hills. Airy and open it bore home to rolls of mounted seats, slanted for comfort and ready to be warmed by the waiting guests. It was way too small to be considered something significant, but compared to the group’s loneliness it shrunk them to the size of insignificant ants. Facing the stage amid the seating were three high-raised construction platforms—cheap wood reinforced with skeletal poles. The Ferris wheel hung ominously to their right; its cogs frozen in fear of the dead below.

The stadium’s public had turned cranky and moody, accompanying its macabre atmosphere. Far away they were just specks trudging up toward the top and the ones close enough to observe were chewing on their lips a little too absentmindedly—reminding Nick more of blabbering babies rather than a once population of respectful adults.

Despite the constant traffic of Infected, it was silent—the only sound the survivors hearing being the clattering of agitated teeth or the click-clack of a broken shoe. Occasionally a clown would take a step, startling surrounding zombies into a moment-long alertness. They would watch for an endless moment, standing stock still… and then would continue their patrol along the seats.

The group headed for the stage, rifles pointed at the darkening sky.

Equipment cluttered the stage where the _Midnight Riders_ were destined to perform: boxes of fireworks laid out in a haphazard manner, their packaging overwhelmed with flying eagles and way-too-bright sunsets. In between them cups and cables, food wrappings and bandages were all left in awkward heaps. Oily gas cans toppled in the corner—counterparts to the generators outside.

“Here we go,” Ellis said, fingers digging into the seal of a fireworks box. He let out a small prayer as none of its contents were damaged by the recent rain that had swept over the country.

His team had split up during his brief examination—Coach behind him, reminiscing over the large poster spanning the stage and Nick and Rochelle scouring through the various boxes aligning the bottom of the stage.

He continued to probe through the compact contents, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He turned around and there she was—a zombie wandering on top of the stage, having slipped by unnoticed by his team. She’d slouched her legs, feet dragging through the pain of a broken leg as she limped straight for his back.

The southerner palmed the gum covered wood, having left his axe just beside his thigh. Whipping up to his full height he stepped forward, axe flying up in reckless flair. The movement proved too much for the weapon—its head snapped off, the blade flying backwards toward the oblivious coach. Ellis’s head followed the movement; its speed leaving no place for fear or guilt in the short window of time.

Years of experience couldn’t have paid more for Coach at that moment as his reflexes forced him to duck out of harm’s way. A heavy clunk resounded behind him, indicating the blade’s final resting place. A moment of silence reigned as the elder’s eyes panned back and forth between the empty handle in the mechanic’s hands and the chunk of steel a foot back.

Surprise molded into anger.

“Oh—excuse me?! EXCUSE ME?!” His fury blew out, turning his speech into a borderline wheeze, mouth twisting to reveal a row of uneven teeth. “There's gonna be some biblical shit happenin' to you if you do that again!” His posture was breathless, hunting.

Ellis’ shoulders raised on their own, shielding his ears from being pulled off his head. He fought between a smile—at how cool the move had been—and cold realization. Hadn’t Coach been fast enough the blade would’ve split his head in two. Coach would’ve been dead.

He thought back to the wall of flies.

Coach was a mild man, but after warning Ellis of his recklessness time and time again, even he was prone to exploding. His gaze hadn’t reduced any of its smolder, scolding with a deadly silence. Even worse—the mechanic was startled to realize none of Coach’s countless warnings had sunk in. Ellis couldn’t blame him—even he would’ve been angry if someone couldn’t discern fiction from reality. 

His hand rose up, palm rubbing the front of his tight-fitted shirt. When he spoke his voice came out in a choke: “Aah’m really sorry, Coach.”

As if weighing the sincerity of his words, Coach didn’t speak. Not until his eyes went wide with fear. “Watch out!”

His hand shot out just as the mechanic turned. The zombie hadn’t been affected by their emotional fiasco from a second ago, lunging for Ellis’ exposed back with untamed vigor. Frozen in time and weaponless, the two men could do little but hold on to each other.

A bullet pierced her temple, tearing a chunk off her blonde hair, and she fell to the ground in a lifeless lump. The elder held the boy close as blood leaked out of her exposed skull. She barely twitched anymore, any life leaving with her bourbon blood.

Smoke poured through the nostrils of Nick’s Magnum, its owner’s hand wrapped around it with grace. He’d cocked his hips in a lazy manner, a hand splayed at his side. His gaze was glued to Ellis—as if it had never left the mechanic in the first place. With an intrinsic ease oozing from his limbs he returned to exploring the rest of the empty rolls, the glint of a smirk coloring the edges of his lips.

The observant look had chased after Ellis’ heart, making it sprint in circles inside his chest. He was vaguely aware of Coach’s hand still trapped against his heart, feeling the prominent change of his pulse when presented with the gambler’s sight. Had he felt something he didn’t comment on it. He turned Ellis around instead, resting his meaty palm against his face.

He took a long moment looking and Ellis looked right back: at the brown of his eyes, at the tattooed wrinkles, at the small streaks of dirt smeared just above his brow. Besides disapproval and ever-present exhaustion, the mechanic also saw the way the elder looked right back—eyes seeking any change in Ellis’ features and nostrils flaring a relieved breath when none was found.

A nod and a reassuring pat later Ellis was sent to explore too.

After burying is nose in the various bags and dirt for a few minutes, the southerner had gathered enough boxes to create a great pile in the middle of the stage. He’d also found some rifle ammo—no wonder left from the military’s stay here. The mechanic mentally compared it to his group’s arsenal. There was only one weapon with this kind of ammunition in their group—Nick’s SCAR. He’d just created his last task it seems.

The gambler was pacing around the control booth when Ellis found him; his rifle tucked under his armpit, pistol on the ready in its holster. As for the control booth, the southerner didn’t even know if it could be called that: instead of a closed off space segregated from the rest of the rowdy crowd, it represented a stretched out grey panel, overseeing the very heart of the stadium. A row of lights held by brusque cables lined the metal polls of the ceiling—throwing weak light upon Nick’s features.

The soundboard itself had at least 10,000 buttons and neither Ellis nor Nick knew what they did. The gambler’s fingers hovered over each button, mapping the air above them, yet hesitant to touch any. Eventually he gained the courage and pushed onto a plastic nub, its hollow shell giving a tiny ‘click’.

Their only light died above them, burying the stadium in darkness. The afternoon glow had all but faded during the group’s preparations and the moon did its best to provide a weak glow in the distance.

It took just a second for the light to reappear, surging as a powerful current above the stage. It bathed the coach and producer in dramatic light, blotting their surroundings; turning them into two solidary figures against a brightening horizon.

This pulse of light felt almost romantic to the southerner—the whole world dead except the last people to call his family.

He sneaked a glance at the conman, who he found staring right back, unabashed. Half of his face was heated by the bright light while his other half shied away in darkness. Sticking to his skin, the shadows pronounced the grime and blood caked on top of it, they deepened the creases in his face and the fatigue around his eyes.

Even so, to Ellis he looked like the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, and he felt like he fell in love all over again.

The mechanic’s eyes watered as he didn’t dare blink, refusing to lose a moment he might never be able to repeat. He licked his lips—the flesh dry from the lack of moisture in the thin air. He busied himself with chewing the flaky skin, smoothing it with his front teeth, distracted by the way it tore off and left little wounds in its wake.

And just like that—Nick was hovering over him, body almost pressed against his. The mechanic set a startled step back, an apology on his tongue, yet the gambler was having none of it, hand shooting out to grab his own. He turned Ellis’ palm, a thumb jabbing in its middle in the effort to open it. If he succeeded or not Ellis didn’t know—his mind being a thousand miles from his body, hovering way above the American continent. His eyes barely registered the way Nick smiled, turning his heels and returning down the stony hill.

It took him a moment to look at the dangerous silver winking from between his fingers.

Nick had left four clips with his Magnum, serving to inflate Ellis’ dumbfounded state even further. Almost as if in a trance, he loaded the empty weapon, eyebrows forcing together into a pronounced frown. Yet, it wasn’t anger that chewed at him—it was the stabbing pulses of nervousness and despair. They’d blink in and out of existence each time the conman came close, be it for a friendly banter or not.

His heart pushed him in different directions, throwing him between the endless pit of his old life and the exciting steps of his new attraction. Every time he thought about climbing a step, his peers and family would take his foot and pull it back. Every time he got reminded of his desires, guilt would race quick, filling him up until he couldn’t breathe. The chains were thrown in his hands from day one, but he always lacked the courage to tame the monster that was Shame. Even when it was little, when it couldn’t hurt him.

He’d never needed any suppressants to tame his adventurous thoughts, as Shame was ready to do it for him. It morphed into some fake equivalent of will and warped his morals. It made him lose himself into a dangerous paradox: questioning his fake morals, yet using his tainted will to boost them and make him believe they were right. He was never the winner in his circle shaped struggle—he’d been losing from day one without even realizing it.

When he did come to realize, so did Shame and it grew angry—very angry. It took him by the hair and hung his head down. Whispered lies into his ears until he was sure of the nothing it was preaching. He proceeded to repeat everything he’d learned from it and nurtured the same abusive relationship with it that shattered his heart in the first place.

He had found solace in his friends, his girlfriends, God and the church, his mother. He’d thought they’d protect him—from it; from himself. He’d given out the broken pieces of his heart, the conflicts. He’d swam in the comfort of familiarity, believing they’d keep him safe. Yet, they were never strong enough to fight Shame, as Shame was nothing but his own fictional villain. He never told them enough, afraid they’d bite back too.

Even so, his desires never stopped their insistent chatter. They’d always take him into the depths—so deep he couldn’t breathe. No, couldn’t _dare_ to breathe. He’d feel warm there, comfortable. He’d be filled with an intrinsic sense of freedom; if he took a breath, he wouldn’t want to go back. So, he’d always find a way to rise back up. To those same secrets and restrictions that killed him all the same. He was constantly flailing—drowning in a foot of water.

And one day he found Nick there with him—one leg over the other, piercing eyes regarding his miserable surroundings. The man had been comfortable and bold—so much like what Ellis strived to be. So Ellis started orbiting him. And Nick had noticed. What joy had that brought with it! Ellis had lost himself in this new adventure, indulging himself from inside his closet. Trying to impress the northerner; to show off that he could be an equal. Treating him like a friend instead of a foe. Reminding him that he was there for him—always standing back to protect his side. And everything looked brighter than ever. Built safe around Ellis and keeping him just the right distance away.

Until a point came when Nick wanted him to get out.

He’d pried Ellis’ door open, holding it with the tip of his shoe. He’d startled the mechanic into movement, but was unable to get him to step through the door. Ellis was standing next to it, ready to jump into the offer the gambler presented, yet unable to move to do so. He was paralyzed. He’d never had a second thought for anything, yet his brain wrote whole novels for this.

And Nick had understood. He had seen Ellis’ hesitation and worked with it. He was insistent, yet mild. He’d given him space, only trailing his fingertips down Ellis’ calves, eyes always watching. And that had been just what the southerner had needed, ending up with confidence he never knew he possessed.

Even so, with each bold move Nick made Ellis’ emotions overwhelmed him, leaving him into a stuttering mess. He’d always start yapping in nervous waves or risk everything to impress the conman. Which always ended with a lot of screaming from his team.

Yet, he wasn’t going to let himself pull back anymore—he’d seen how the apocalypse continued. It didn’t spare anybody, even God’s most faithful children. Its only goal was to break them and eat them alive, painting the cities with their blood. And Ellis set it upon himself to pick up to its aggressive pace; to run and shoot, not wait and dwell. For everything had changed. It was never going to be the same again, whether he wanted it or not. His old life had been lost since the day they missed that first helicopter and even before that, leaving him with only himself to fight through. And he was sick of fighting an enemy that never existed.

The corners of his lips cracked into a smile as the last reloaded clip resounded in the air. He raised his head, taking a deep breath and stepping out of his closet.

His resolve freed him from a heavy baggage, turning his steps light as his feet clambered down the steps. He made a running jump over the small fence with no visible stupor and hurried onto the stage. He proceeded to plug one of the guitars idling against the large speakers and gave a couple of swift notes to a song dearly familiar to him.

 _“Gotta reach fo’ the top, stay on the mountain…”_ He sung, his voice tainted by the mic’s steel-like coating. It distorted it, but didn’t fail to show its surprising talent. His voice didn’t carry any of the smoothness of a professional singer, instead it came out forced and breathy, yet each note carried over to the next with a sense of melody.

His fingers didn’t just play the bass guitar, they _rocked_ it. They rocked the guitar and they rocked the whole stage with it. Everything vibrated with the deep, gravely notes, strung so tight they were going to snap with the next move. He created a rhythm which his team followed, bobbing their heads with him.

Coach strode up to him, excited to hear the reenactment of one of his favorite bands. Ellis stepped back, letting the big man join him, but the elder was quick to pull him back, wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

Coach threw cautiousness to the side, grabbing the stand mic and bellowing with a boom. “GOTTA REACH FO’ THE TOP! STAY ON THE MOUNTAIN!” He mumbled the rest of the lyrics, growling the words through clenched teeth.

His voice—significantly deeper—was a heavy machinery powered with forceful air. He barked the notes, taking pauses to accentuate each word. When he ran out of lyrics, he freed his gut, yelling each melodic syllable into the night. His voice was powerful and rough—seen its fair share of screaming children and fighting delinquents.

Ellis was grinning wildly at him, face rosy and pulsing with excitement. His fingers went harder onto the strings and he snorted, chin raised and head pointing to the ceiling.

The melody shifted and so did Coach with it. _“Every lady’s crazy when her daddy’s not around— “_

Ellis joined him. _“Every lady’s crazy when her daddy’s not around— “_

 _“- **duh-nah-nah-nah-nuh-uh-nah-nahhh!”** _Their voices tangled into a catatonic mess, both finishing the iconic lyrics with jumbled screams.

Nick flashed his wolfish teeth at the display, while Rochelle whooped and clapped her hands vigorously. When Ellis turned Nick noticed he didn’t even bat an eye at her, eyes reserved for him only. Deciding to indulge the little man, he averted his gaze to check on the rest and seeing them occupied, winked in return. That seemed to put the mechanic in even higher spirits as he grinned back, smile stretched all the way to his ears. He puffed his chest and put the guitar on his shoulder like an axe, giving Nick an idea.

The northerner ambled up to him, startling the unprepared guitarist. He bypassed him, however, barely letting their arms brush and opted for the other guitar left behind. It was relatively light, yet awkward in his hands. He’s never held a musical instrument before—what little hobbies he has had mainly consisting of starting school fights or doing extra math out of the back of his book where the problems were either reserved for the end of the year or never brought up in the first place. The instrument was made of heavy wood, painted red and gleaming in the bright lights. White streaks of buttons and parts danced across its handle, leading up to a slightly bent top.

He smiled to himself. “This could work.”

The sound technicians had set another station on the stage, fitted with a tented top and a couple of glowing energy drinks. Nick got behind the display, while Ellis cracked a can open and took a couple of swigs. He passed it over to the producer just as Nick’s eyes stumbled upon something pretty hilarious. “Sorry to break it to ya Coach, but your heroes _lip-sync_. There's a tape back here labeled _'Finale'_.”

Coach turned, the news having caught onto something in him. “They have taped music?” His face twisted into a bitter frown and his voice took on the same bitterness. “Shit… old ass classic rock clowns.”

Ellis was quick to jump to their defense. “A _Midnaaght Raaders_ show ain’t ‘bout the music, Nick. It’s ‘bout the _explosions_ ,” he said almost venomously, despising Nick’s statement with his very core. Had Nick’s remark been crueler, he’d probably attempted to beat him up too.

Coach meanwhile had turned his head up toward the big poster, his mind under the influence of a trance. He muttered sourly under his breath. “Well, ain’t this a bitch. They got a _tape_ fo’ their music. To think I used to like these guys…”

All these years he’d thought their shows were one of a kind, that their studio recordings were the only exception to the rule. He’d enjoyed seeing them— _pretend—_ to show the raw and untainted side of classic rock; to be out there gifting fans, young and old, with a glimpse of emotion without a replicate. Now even that didn’t turn out to be true.

This park had stripped any illusions of joy he might have had.

Ellis was still going strong in his counter arguments, not letting the northerner win. “Lotsa bands lip-sync! Ain’t nothin’ wrong with savin’ yer vocal cords fer the studio,” he threw his hands around the air exasperatedly, his liveliness on the issue making it thus the more hilarious for the gambler.

His statement also seemed to do it for the football coach, as he turned and said: “Naw, they just savin’ their voices fo’ the studio, Nick. Tha’s _smart_.”

Nick just sighed, fun ruined. “If you have taste cover your ears,” he said, pressing the buttons and bathing the stage in a supernova.

Screeches announced the beginning of a Pandemonium. The playback serenaded each moving thing with its uproarious vocals. It beckoned the Infected through the stadium walls, and they flooded in massive waves of flesh. Some dropped from the sky, ending into a miserable splat and those who survived the fall, handicapped. Their disability didn’t deter their determination, however, as they crawled their way to the survivors, creating a harrowing image.

It seemed as if the infected waved their limbs in sync with the brutal rhythm, dragging each other this way and that until each individual became one with the crowd. It was like a living organ, like skin; stretching and tearing at the corners while its mass covered every inch of space. Thoroughly distracted, the creatures’ eyes were pulled by the various sounds of either pulsing speakers or the meticulous clatter of loaded guns. The survivors screamed commands in almost undistinguishable tongues, adding to the demonic picture in the diseased minds.

The group of four couldn’t have felt much better either: trying desperately to follow a brutal pace which none could complete, creating wavy patters across the stage in their efforts. While the noise surrounding them was one problem, the smell was a whole different disaster of its own. Sickeningly sour, sweetly rotten; gas into the air or tiny squirts of fluid that would slick the creaking wood. It all didn’t matter as it made them gag to the side. The mechanic managed to slip on multiple occasions, forcing the conman to run from the other side of the stage and cover him.

Nick’s shoes weren’t made for that kind of exertion, letting their dissatisfaction known by biting the back of his feet and squishing his toes, creating a series of painful, gooey wounds. He couldn’t discern whether he’d already popped a few or if it was just sweat making his socks wet.

Just as the Infected decreased, the beat changed. A mighty roar penetrated the very air they breathed, the sound echoing off the vicinity and spreading into the night. Infected bellowed a unanimous screech, splitting the air like a chorus of demons; welcoming it. With a leap the Tank silenced them—crushing them with a single fist. He had only eyes for the four survivors as his arms flexed, carrying him over the rocky steps.

The group gathered into a tight clump, backs pressed. Their last encounter with the imposing mutant had ended catastrophically, leaving an imprint on the way they acted around it. Instead of the mindless panic that had possessed them on previous encounters, they stood their ground: two by two, firing with their strongest weapons.

Steel seats rained on them, rocks followed. They collided against the stage’s wood, creating irreversible dents or making the survivors trip. Meanwhile bullets and fire, hot fireworks and smoke pots all ate at the Tank’s exterior, peeling away its skin, yet barely penetrating the muscles underneath. They all ran left and right, each spraying bullets and profanities, exhausting the Tank’s already rotten mind. It wouldn’t cease its chase, however, running after each baiting insult and getting its face blown into tiny chunks.

By the time it fell groaning to its knees, a new wave of Infected had gathered, sweeping over the survivors not unlike an upturned teapot of scalding water.

They pushed the fighters up to the scaffolding, forcing them to take refuge on its rock-sturdy built. Coach held the bottom floor, kicking infected in the face and gunning their bodies with the hot flash of his shotgun. Ellis had thrown his legs over the edge behind him, Magnum out piercing whatever crawled its way around them with little care. Nick stilled the air with his sharp focus; Ellis’ sniper balanced between his legs. He sniped the skittish Jockeys with their devious laughter or put unsuspecting Hunters into a deadly coma. Rochelle completed the chain, arms flexing behind him, a box of firecrackers between her feet—helping keep an overwhelmed Coach afloat.

Their tactful placement rewarded them with the sweetened scent of fresh air, untainted by the hair-raising chaos and smoky mist of panic below. With their surroundings, so did their strategy change: from run, shoot, survive into a more tuned and refined stop, look and listen. Although their senses were assaulted, their bond remained sturdy and organized.

Until, yet again, the beat changed.

What mangled parts of a security shirt that were left hung off his raw chest as the Tank burst in front of them, syncing his movements to the beat. Either this was the greatest bunch of coincidences or _The Midnight Riders_ were fortune tellers. Nick’s astonishment was smothered by the thrusting motion of hands into the pavement.

“ _DOWN!_ ” His voice left him in a frantic screech that he barely recognized. Nevertheless, his group didn’t waste a single beat, toppling off the structure with bold motions. Rochelle, emboldened by her adrenaline, threw firecrackers into the creature’s feet as a desperate attempt to buy her team more time. It did little else than set the Tank’s veins on fire. And Nick’s.

As words failed him completely, he grabbed her arm and pulled her off roughly, pushing her in the direction of the awaiting men. Leather met plastic as he tipped a gas can over, throwing his lighter in the oily spill and creating an explosion that engulfed the creature in seconds.

His mind held only two things: run and shoot. The scaffolding disappeared beneath him and he found himself running between the seats, feet burning in the tight constraints of his shoes. The smell of burning skin followed him unrestrained as he put all trust in his team to kill the bulky mass before either his toes exploded or the creature snapped his spine in two.

The abrasive edges of the seats dug into his ankles as he ran, nearly tripping him. Zombies threw themselves at him, their arms flailing.

“ ** _NICK!_** _”_

The animalistic urgency in the harsh drawl pushed the northerner to take cover, and he was glad that he did, because a mere second later the booth above him was gone. 

The scream had been loud enough to draw the Tank’s attention, letting Nick deal with a very spastic Jockey that was coming hot for his nuts. The midget zigzagged between the public’s feet, his devilish laugh complimenting the demented expression on its deformed face. Its hind legs hopped continuously, picking up speed, preparing it for a grand attack. Before it could even get close, however, Nick had already put a bullet through its forehead. With the grace of a slab of ham it flopped just short of Nick’s feet. Wouldn’t he had been busy looking at the empty sky, the conman would’ve laughed.

With the air unmoved and the horde unending it proved the current circumstances didn’t have the desired effect of attracting the helicopter’s attention. Nick turned; the stage.

He took off down the steps, his toes catching on the steep ends, forcing him to regain his balance more than once. His gaze was torn between his group and the demonic screeching collecting at his feet. He grit his teeth and jumped the rail—the searing pain of his landing spreading across his feet.

The stage called out to him in between limps, beckoning him towards its firework reserves. He flipped every button, regardless of its function or size, pulled every lever and set every firework in sight. Some made the stage lights flicker, other’s distorted the music in unfathomable ways, and some, the most important, set the whole stadium on fire. The spray of light made him blink twice, and he felt as his team shared the same sentiment. Nevertheless, it was exactly what they needed.

_That’s it. Come and get it._

To say he got the zombies’ attention would’ve been an understatement. Every zombie, regardless of size or shape sprinted in his direction, maws wide and nails ready to dig into his sides. They crawled up the stage’s sides, landed from the roof, caught themselves in the fire of the burning fireworks. Some of them took advantage of their fallen comrades and climbed on top of their burning bodies. Their clothes caught on fire, yet they had no shame as they were headed for him butt-naked.

In between wild swings or heated bullets, the northerner sought out his team. His eyes rearranged the crowd up top over and over, until he found them—spread in a tag team of three, one for each side of the ginormous figure.

The Tank backs them against a wall—they keep on pushing. He retreats and they do not fail to follow, with bared teeth and growls trapped behind their sweaty lips. No fists break bones and no rocks land on their bodies.

They got it. They played him like a flute.

Nick couldn’t tame the triumph that sparked within him, filling his chest and steadying his arms. His throat almost opened, spilling the wild ‘They got it! _They got it!_ ’

He picked the right people after all.

With renewed vigor he swung his guitar until he heard its strings snap and felt the handle buckle. Nevertheless, he grinned, the pain unnoticed in between his wild snorts.

It was either his adrenaline wearing off or the zombies kept on breeding between themselves. Their amounts were at a constant increase, nestling between his legs and locking on his back. He elbowed his way to the back of the stage, where he repeatedly beat his back against the hard surface. He managed to smash them off, yet at the cost of a large chunk of his energy. He was bitten and getting spunk spat on his face and neck, nails and teeth tearing and his shirt and sagging at his pant legs. In between firm kicks his clips ran empty and he dropped his weapon in favor of digging his palms in what remained of the people’s faces. His guitar was useless against the onslaught—long disheveled some distance away.

His ears registered the Tank’s final roar, bellowing high above the screaming in his ears. It was a roar that lasted, that spread far and wide across the whole arena. Literally. He wailed and wailed and didn’t stop even as he lay limp between Nick’s panting team. A mere second later the northerner’s eyes registered the actual source of the noise.

Powerful, the buzz of the chopper lured the infected away from him, the noise like the freshest honey to their own pest-like mass. Its slender wings beat the dark sky roughly, dragging the air around it as it went. Infected threw themselves at the noise, but the pilot kept his distance; his sway sturdy yet bothering on agitating.

Nick spoke before he even knew what was happening inside of him: “IT WORKED! I LOVE YOU, COACH!”

“Yes! The chopper saw us!” Rochelle added.

“Thank Jesus! Even I didn’t think _that_ was gonna work!” Coach followed.

“See that?! _The Midnaaght Raaders'_ music saves laaves!” Ellis was last, never the one to miss on a celebration.

The team abandoned any sense of reflection as they sprinted towards the noise, not unlike the Infected around them. Their weapons chattered among themselves, spraying bloody saliva with each deadly word. Coach made sure to use the best of himself by using his body as a riot shield, his hands ushering Rochelle’s light form inside the helicopter, eyes never leaving her. Nick had latched onto Coach’s back himself, helping him.

That was their greatest mistake.

Years later Nick would thank whatever tingle ran down his spine at that moment because when he turned, Ellis was on the ground, his work shoes the only thing visible.

Ellis couldn’t process what was happening: one moment his brain bounced like a junkie with an overdose and the next he was on the ground, body compressed and pain spreading over his chest and nipples. Instinct drove his hands in front of him, pushing back at whatever was holding him with balled fists. Although his eyes were wide open, he couldn’t see—there was nothing but darkness in front of him. Then, it registered: it was a face. The flesh had gone so dark it had turned unrecognizable, the noises escaping that flaking jaw barely human.

A scream tore his eardrums apart, the sound so harsh it forced his hands to his ears. It left him vulnerable.

Sensing its fleeting opening, the creature’s vigor increased, its nails pounding and tearing, and taking, taking, _taking_. And Ellis was elbowing as hard as he could, trying to put his arms as a barrier between it and his body. It did little other than agitate the black flesh further, its growls stringing one after another, louder than the last, until it was nothing but a feral dog with its leash cut off.

It was almost like lunacy—the same cycle of attack and defense repeated over and over again as the mechanic’s surroundings mashed together into paste. And the mechanic couldn’t fight it off. Even worse—he couldn’t call out to his team either. The creature was sucking his air off with each animalistic blow.

The mechanic tried screaming regardless and the pitiful sound that came out almost made the creature laugh. Frustrated and infected with wild panic the southerner seized his body wildly, giving everything he had one last time. The movement stirred something against his hip. Something round and clicking, something— _The jar._

With a huff he knocked hard against the creature’s chest. The action itself wasn’t enough to shake it off completely, but it was enough to give him a window of opportunity. Driven by his greed for survival, he snatched the jar, tearing the loophole of his jeans in his fervor. The creature was preparing yet another screech, but met only shards of glass as its jaw bit into the jar.

The chain of events that followed left him hollow.

One Infected froze mid step not so far away. Another followed. And another. And many more as the stadium came to a standstill, the space filling with the sound of a synonymous inhale. Their heads turned at once, bodies dropping to a dangerous crawl. The hooded creature before him had stopped too, entranced. It stared at the fluid dripping between its open palms, his prey all but forgotten. It sniffed at it. And bit.

Suddenly, the Infected around Ellis all came crashing into view, flooding towards him with a dreamlike, slow-motion grace. All he could do was stare as the mass threatened to crush him, still pinned under the mutated Infected.

Strong arms dug into his armpits, dragging him not a moment too soon. The Infected shredded the mutant to pieces: tore off its clothes, ripped its very flesh apart; devouring it in oozing chunks until the figure couldn’t be discerned from a bowl of stringy, melted cheese. As their amount grew, so did the sludge of blood and intestines around them.

Without any bones to hold himself, the mechanic let himself be turned and his shoulders to be shaken. With his angle reversed he came face to face with the conman, not a foot away, misty breath punching the cool evening air. His face was raw with emotions Ellis had never seen on the man before: worry, guilt, regret, _fear…_ With the lack of response, they soon turned into anger—the man’s usual substitute for vulnerability that Ellis had seen so many times before. Nick was the greatest actor the Georgia native had ever had the chance to know, yet he could read him perfectly.

He could read him, now. He could read him before. He could read him for the rest of their lives.

“I love yew.”

Hadn’t it been for the sudden lack of expression on his teammate’s face, Ellis wouldn’t have known the words had slipped out. They were sloppy and blurted in a messy heap, yet clear enough to deafen every sound around the two men’s bubble.

Ellis' face grew hot; every pore in his body sucking what remained of the sepia-toned Georgia heat. No thoughts dared show their faces, limbs trembling, huddled far away. Scraps flew around his head instead, tangled and snagged by a bush of nettles—signals of alarm turned into a cloth of fraying threads. Each time he tried weaving them back together, they escaped him, turning into a heap of knots.

He wanted to say that time had stopped; that he was frozen and unable to move. That the very reason he lacked bravery for the next step was out of his control; of powers higher and unreachable, be it God or nature herself. He wanted to say that, to believe it. He wanted to lie.

In fact, he’d never felt more energized, more fluid and flexible. Even unmoving, the very fibers of his being danced to the rhythm of his beating heart. His eyes pulsed and pounded for an escape—ready to bounce out and run in circles around his crumpled body. His cowardice bothered on downright agony. An agony he was ready to endure if it meant soaking Nick for just a second longer.

Nick on the other hand was already pulling himself back together; he’d always been better than Ellis in it. Movement bled into his limbs—his intrinsic snappiness replaced by the restricting nature of dark molasses. His hand came up to touch his forehead, eyes scanning the ground—a blind man in search of himself.

Ellis was still watching, mesmerized; waiting for a reaction long passed the comfortable moment they once shared. Every move the conman made he read like a book. Every sound that escaped him he put under lock and key. He was waiting, he was _wanting_. He’d never wanted to hear anything more badly in his life.

Nick broke the moment by rising to his feet; not even stopping to slap the dust off his trousers as he lunged into a headlong rush. Zombies tried to catch him, but he shrugged them off, fists flying around the mechanic. Ellis was still on the ground, watching the show unfold with beady eyes. He watched as the Infected continued their efforts in trying to catch the northerner and drag him off with them. Watched as Nick continued to shrug them off and punch the air around the mechanic.

It was when the conman grabbed his shirt pulling him to his feet forcefully that he realized he shouldn’t be sitting on the ground. A Tank was coming.

His brain was no more—a sweetened slushy; melting, yet ice shards still swimming inside. His shoes rattled with every step, unnoticeable on a normal basis, now heavy and awkward with every step. By the time they reached the helicopter, Coach and Ro were hanging out, arms spread and throats spread even wider—each syllable escaping either warning or bothering on hysteria.

The helicopter was taking off even before they had the chance to close the doors, leaving Ellis to cling onto the interior details, fingers overwhelmed and head swimming as the zombies became smaller and smaller, blending with the ground as the park’s lights dimmed.

**Author's Note:**

> btw if ya'll wanna contact me or smth just come to @anuspastor on tumblr or @anustart_xx on insta  
> and ofc  
> the comments  
> hehehehehh


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